


Persistence: Part 5

by JaneOfCakes



Series: Persistence [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Hurt John, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Reichenbach, Rape Recovery, Rebuilding Relationship, Sweet Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-12 03:19:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneOfCakes/pseuds/JaneOfCakes
Summary: And we're back....





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're back....

“…...Sherlock…….”

John’s eyes flutter open and squint in the light. Everything is blurry and his throat is dry. He blinks a few times and tries to get his bearings. He is just about to make an attempt to figure out where the hell he is when the pain hits him. He closes his eyes and clenches his teeth against it, his left hand balls into a tight fist.

“Jesus Christ.” The words slip through his lips in a gravelly, desperate whisper.

“John?” There is a warm hand on John’s arm. “Can you hear me?”

John opens his eyes again, latching onto this distraction and running with it. The world is no clearer than it was the first time, but he is still starting to notice more about his surroundings. He can hear the telltale, methodical beeping of a heart monitor and the light buzzing of fluorescent lights. A hospital? And that voice. It sounds concerned and hesitant. He knows he has heard it somewhere before, but is used to it having a more superior and all-knowing tone. Determined to learn as much as he can about where he is and what is going on, John licks his lips and whispers hoarsely.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me who I am?”

John blinks a few times while turning his head slowly. A dark mass comes into view. The longer he stares, the more it looks like something real, someone real. He blinks slowly and begins to see solid outlines forming and colors emerging. A dark suit coat, a red tie, a white shirt, receding ginger-brown hair. John furrows his brow, squinting at the man before him. After another moment or two, the face of Mycroft Holmes appears at last and nearly in focus too. Mycroft looks concerned, his eyes full of worry.

“John, can you tell me who I am?” he asks again.

“What?” John’s voice is starting to sound more normal, but he’d still love a tall glass of water.

“My name, John.”

“I have concussion again, don’t I?”

“Very perceptive, Doctor.” John can finally see him clearly now. Some of the worry has been replaced with a knowing look and, he’ll be damned if Mycroft doesn’t look a little bit happy. The older man leans forward in acute interest. “Now, my name, if you please.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” John sighs.

“And your name.”

“You’ve already called me by my name.”

“Tell me your name.”

“You already gave it away.”

“Your. Name.” Mycroft insists in that calm voice. John sighs again and rolls his eyes. Surely none of this is necessary if John is cognisant of the fact that Mycroft has already called him by his own name.

“John.”

“And your surname?”

“Watson. John Watson. Captain. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Your date of birth,” Mycroft nods in approval and continues.

“March 31, 1973.”

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“With the monitor and shitty lights, I assume hospital. Can’t be St. Bart’s,” John reasons.

“It is.”

“What?” John tries to sit up and fails miserably, pain rushing through his body. Pain he tries to ignore. “How the fuck did I get here?”

“You were on an island near the Aeolians. Do you remember what happened?”

John closes his eyes and tries to think back. He wants to snap at Mycroft, wants to demand he just tell him what the hell happened, but decides going along with this game will be faster. John puts himself back on the island, by the cliff, Jim, the gun, the helicopter.

“I was running from Jim. He was going to kill me because…” his eyes snap open and he gasps out a name. “Sherlock! Where is Sherlock?”

John tries to sit up again, only to fall back down, groaning. The pain in his shoulder is incredible and the beeping from the heart monitor quickens its pace. John tries to focus on something else until it occurs to him that is isn’t his left shoulder that hurts so much. It’s his right. And his right arm won’t move. 

John opens his eyes wide and looks down to see that his right arm is in a sling. His shoulder is completely covered with bandages. A sharp pain radiates from it, coursing through his arm to his fingertips, and into his chest. He remembers the knife, the burning. The beeping gets even faster. John can feel Mycroft’s hand touching his left arm, holding onto him gently. His voice is laced with concern.

“Calm down, John. Sherlock is fine.“

Before he can say anymore, a team of medical personnel rushes in and begins to examine John hurriedly. Mycroft steps aside to watch, his eyes full of worry once again.

***

Sherlock stalks down the hallway in St. Bart’s, heading back to John’s room. Molly and Greg follow close behind, glancing at one another. Molly widens her eyes and looks at Greg expectantly. He wrinkles his brow in confusion. She arches her own eyebrows and nods towards the angry detective striding down the hall. Greg’s eyes follow him for a quick moment before he looks back at Molly and shakes his head. Molly rolls her eyes and glares at the DI, but Sherlock starts speaking before she can gesture again.

“That was a total waste of time. I should have stayed with John.”

“You’ve been with John constantly for five days,” Molly turns her attention to him. “You needed to get out of that room for a bit.”

Sherlock grunts angrily and keeps his pace.

“You were completely intolerable,” Greg adds. They stop outside John’s door and Sherlock huffs. The DI grins. “The food helped too, you skinny bastard.”

The detective shoots him a dirty look, opens the door, and steps inside. Mycroft is standing alone by the large picture window. The blinds are closed, all the lights in the room are muted. It looks no different from the way it did when the trio left the room two hours earlier. The elder Holmes looks up from his mobile as they enter and slips it gracefully into his pocket. This matter requires his full attention. He steps forward in greeting.

“He’s awake.”

With jaws dropped, all three sets of eyes sweep over to look at John and see him asleep on the bed. The covers are pulled up to his waist, his unharmed left arm laying over the blankets, his face peaceful in slumber. All in all, he also looks exactly the way he did before. All eyes return to Mycroft in question.

“Sedation,” Mycroft explains before his brother can launch into a tirade. “I asked him what he remembered from the island. He became rather panicked and tried to sit up. His heart rate spiked and the pain overtook him.”

“You spoke to him?” Sherlock surges forward.

“Yes, he was very lucid, considering the concussion and all. I believe his doctor’s concerns, while not unfounded, do not apply here. He answered all of my questions clearly and without hesitation.”

“Thank god for that,” Greg sighs. He finally allows his body to relax for the first time since they arrived at Bart’s.

“He seemed like himself?” Molly asks, still concerned.

“Very much so. Snarky and all,” Mycroft gives her a small smile. He turns his eyes on Sherlock. “He’s quite concerned about you, brother mine.”

“I imagine he would be since I flew off a cliff when last he saw me,” Sherlock replies in a stern tone.

“Did they say when he would regain consciousness?” Molly inquires.

“Not for hours,” Mycroft hesitates and looks carefully at Molly and Greg. “We should all leave this place and get some sleep.”

“I will stay here,” Sherlock announces immediately. “You all can go home if you like, but I will not leave John’s side again.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to argue, but Molly makes a short scolding sound and his eyes dart to her. She gives him a minute head shake. The man pulls his shoulders back, raises his chin slightly, and purses his lips.

“Very well.”

Sherlock and Greg exchange a look of confusion as Mycroft and Molly walk to the door. Greg pats the detective on the shoulder, tells him to ring if he needs anything, and hurries after the others to find out what the hell that was. 

Now alone, with only himself and John closed in the room, Sherlock walks to the bed and sits quietly next to his flatmate. With a soft expression, he watches John sleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the slight twitch of his hand, the way his eyes move beneath their lids. Sherlock leans toward him and places his hand gently over John’s.

“It pains me to see you like this, John,” he tells him in a hushed whisper. “I failed you. I was too stupid to see what was before my very eyes. Had I only… You needn’t have suffered for so long.”

Suddenly feeling as though he may burst into a million pieces if he doesn’t cover John as completely as he can and shield him from harm, Sherlock rests his head on John’s thigh. He still holds one hand and wraps his other arm around the smaller man’s body, holding him tightly.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for the damage I have done.”

***

John stirs early the next morning. He opens his eyes slowly and exhales deeply, staring at the blank ceiling and trying to recall the details of the day before. He looks to his right at the beeping heart monitor. Well, at least his heart rate is normal. He glances at the IV fluids and reads their labels quickly, noticing one full of morphine.

Looking down at his body and the blankets around it in search of the deployment plunger, John’s gaze falls upon a shock of gorgeous, brown curls. Eyes wide and lips parted, he gasps and prays that he isn’t dreaming. John worms his left hand out from under his lover without waking him. He pauses for a second and then touches the soft locks gently, so softly for fear that they might shatter beneath his fingers.

As he continues to ghost his fingers over the luscious curls, John grows bolder, sweeping his fingers through and tangling them in feather-soft hair. It’s real. It’s all real. The bed, the monitor, the blankets, the curls, the man they belong to. John stops and gasps almost silently, lifting his hand off of the man in his lap. He eyes follow the lines of that angular body in disbelief - down his back to where he sits on a chair, chest slumped against the bed. One arm is wrapped around John’s legs just above the knee. The other hand that had held John’s is folded awkwardly at John’s side.

John touches the curls again, gently pushing them up off the man’s face so he can see it. He lets out a long breath of relief that he didn’t realize he was holding and lets his body sag into the bed. Lying with him, head on his lap, is the very man he has wanted to see every minute of every day for the last seven weeks, give or take. The one man he was almost convinced he would never see again. Sherlock Holmes - face snuggling near to John’s belly and snoring quietly.

John wants to sit up for a better look, but his broken ribs will not allow it. Instead, he contents himself by pushing up with his left arm just enough to be within inches of Sherlock’s head. Both shoulders protest strongly, the right more than the left. Pain coursing through his body, John still manages to inhale deeply the scent of those curls. He leans back again to rest and revel in it. That posh shampoo only mildly obscures Sherlock’s own distinctive scent - musky, but a little sweet.

John finds himself relaxing completely, even the pain has begun to subside now that the tension is slipping from his body. He closes his eyes and melts into the bed, placing a hand on Sherlock’s head again to stroke his curls. John looks down at that beautiful face and falls into a peaceful sleep almost instantly.

***

Nearly an hour later, Sherlock shifts slightly and inhales deeply, stretching his back. He feels the weight of John’s hand immediately and tilts his head so he can see the man’s face. John’s eyes are closed in sleep, moving slowly beneath his lids. Sherlock carefully slides out from under John’s hand and places it gently on John’s thigh. He raises himself and sits up properly, looking at John with hopeful eyes. He moved while Sherlock was asleep. John had to have moved. His hand was most definitely not on Sherlock’s head before. But was it intentional or did he just shift in his sleep?

“John?” Sherlock asks quietly, his voice full of nervous anticipation. He leans in and reaches for John, resting a warm hand on his cheek. To his surprise, John opens his eyes slowly and looks at Sherlock sleepily.

“John,” he breathes, his eyes shining with tears.

“God, Sherlock.”

John has no idea how he manages it, but he is sitting up almost immediately and lurches toward his detective, pressing up against his body. His one free arm wraps around Sherlock’s waist and both his hands cup John’s face. Their lips meet in an intense kiss. Their mouths move together in perfect synchronization, as if they were put on earth just to be together. Sherlock tucks one hand under John’s chin and tilts it upward as he turns his own slightly to the side, deepening the kiss. He slowly caresses John’s lips with his own, making the kiss warm and languid and irresistable.

“Oh god, Sherlock,” John sneaks the words in before Sherlock’s mouth covers his once again. He lets his teeth scrape John’s tongue and then teases it with his own. John shivers in response and, without thinking, grabs a handful of Sherlock’s shirt. He pulls it loose from the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers and slides his warm hand onto the small of the taller man’s back. He wants to feel him, every and any part of him. He wants to make sure this is real.

The detective melts into the touch. His hands glide down John’s body to his waist and pull them closer together, all the while mouthing at John’s tanned neck. A quiet voice says his name somewhere in the back of his mind, but he pays no heed. He is so caught up in the scent and feel of John next to him again. He has hoped and dreamed for this moment for so long, and now John is here and he is safe and he is...injured. 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open as the voice becomes clearer and louder. The voice is John’s and it is full of pain. His hand is pushing Sherlock’s body away rather than pulling it near. 

“Sherlock, please,” he wheezes. Sherlock recoils immediately, rising to his feet in a second. His eyes fill with horror as he realizes what he has done and both hands fly up to cover his mouth.

“Oh my god. I just…” the detective struggles for words, unable to even imagine what John must be thinking, how he must feel. “You were trapped with Moriarty for months, taking whenever he pleased and I...I just…” 

Sherlock’s face crumbles and he buries it in his hands, unable to face John for another second. He does not see John struggling to reach for the detective, resolutely ignoring the sharp pains in his body. He speaks sternly, swinging a hand at Sherlock in hopes of catching an arm and pulling him closer. He can’t quite reach and huffs in frustration.

“No. No, Sherlock. Don’t. Just, no. Look at me.” He does so with some reluctance. “It was not like that. Don’t EVER compare yourself to him. Do you understand me? There is no comparison.”

Sherlock studies his flatmate for a long while. John may be covered with bandages and bruises, he may look exhausted and haggard, but his eyes… His eyes hold the very essence of John Watson. Deep blue and full of life, determined and strong, loving and kind, but not about to take any shit. He IS Sherlock’s John. His John whom he lost. However worried Sherlock was about John never being able to recover from the torture he endured, never being the same, it begins to melt away. He knows there will still be emotions and other things to deal with, and it will be difficult for both of them. But if John had changed down in his core, he would not be looking at Sherlock now with those eyes.

Sherlock finally gives John a shallow nod. The smaller man sits back a little and tries to relax. The detective watches the pain play out on John’s face. 

“Are you in great pain?” It’s a stupid question because the answer is obvious, but it seems like the right thing to ask.

“It’s not your fault,” John grimaces. “You got caught up in the moment. So did I. No one’s to blame.”

“I pushed too hard.”

“A bit, yeah,” he smiles a little and reaches for him. “Come here.”

Sherlock hesitantly steps close again and John takes his hand, smile brightening.

“I missed you so much.”

A small smile blooms on the detective’s lips, and he touches his endearing and perfect doctor’s cheek gently. He comes in close, guided by John’s hand coming to rest just below his cheekbone, and nuzzles at the side of John’s face. Hands creep slowly around one another’s bodies until they are locked in an embrace. Tears are dripping down Sherlock’s face, his fingers clasping at the back of John’s head.

“I want you to come home with me. I can’t function without you. I’ve felt so…”

“Empty,” they say together. Both a little startled, they ease their grips so they can look at one another. Each searches the other’s sparkling eyes. Their faces are very close together and they share the air in between. Quiet words slip from John’s lips.

“Kiss me, Sherlock. Please.”

The detective gasps almost silently and softly presses his lips to John’s. Their eyes close and they both lose themselves in the touch. John nips ever so slightly, teasing Sherlock’s lips open. A breath passes between them, a promise. It feels like hours pass before John suddenly pulls away to fix Sherlock with panicked, guilty eyes.

“No. I can’t. I...I can’t.” 

Fear cuts through Sherlock’s body in an instant, believing his worst nightmare is coming to be right before his eyes.  _ No. No, please John. Don’t turn away.  _ Sherlock’s lips are still parted, but in fear as he searches for the right words, or for ANY words to say that will make John stay.

“I’ve done terrible things,” John continues, a tear dripping from his eye. “Terrible things with Jim. Unforgivable. You don’t… You deserve better. So much more. Not someone who would…”

John’s words stop as his voice catches in his throat. The dread in Sherlock’s eyes melts away and he sighs in relief. John does not hate him now for his failings, for not finding him ages ago, or for wallowing in drugs and self-pity as Sherlock feared. John isn’t angry with him at all. He is trying to push him away because he fears Sherlock will not want him, which is totally absurd and must be rectified this instant.

Sherlock envelopes John in his arms, pulling him close tenderly. He guides John’s head to rest on his shoulder and holds him reassuringly. He finds himself saying the same words John said only moments ago.

“Shh. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault,” he kisses his golden hair and John shifts closer, burying his nose in Sherlock’s neck. “I will never blame you for anything that was said or done on that island. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“You don’t know that.” John pulls away from him again and looks him in the eye. Sherlock sees the man’s fear, his disquiet on full display. He licks his lips and proceeds cautiously.

“But I do. Did Mycroft not tell you what happened?”

“What happened. No, he didn’t tell me anything. What is it? What did happen?”

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed and takes John’s left hand in both of his own. He meets John’s eyes sincerely.

“We flew to the island immediately, whereupon Mycroft remained in the helicopter to watch that no one left the house, or the island. Greg, Molly, and I went in through a window. We’d barely started our search when he radioed that the two of you were outside. He tried to remain as inconspicuous as a helicopter can be until he determined that Moriarty intended to kill you.” 

John holds his tongue, biting at the inside of his cheek. Mycroft actually drew attention to himself because it became obvious that John was going to jump. He makes a mental note to speak with Mycroft later, and to tell Sherlock what he truly intended to do.

“His distraction provided enough time for me to catch up with you. I tackled Jim to prevent your execution, but we both went over the cliff’s edge. Not really what I’d intended,” Sherlock grumbles as an aside. John pulls a small grin at Sherlock’s candor and visible frustration with himself. “Unfortunately, Greg and Molly were a few too many steps behind me and could not stop you from jumping.”

“What? Jumping?!” John nearly shouts.

“Yes. You jumped after us without hesitation,” Sherlock provides, studying his flatmate’s incredulous face. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember you running, coming out of thin air,” he winces at a spike of pain, brow furrowing. “The two of you going over. I screamed your name and...jumping. No.“

“It’s all right, John. It was a traumatic experience. I’m sure it will all come back eventually,” Sherlock reassures him whilst making a mental note. He strokes that back of John’s hand with his thumbs and continues. “Moriarty hit the water first and must have broken my fall, or I would have surely lost consciousness. I surfaced alone to Mycroft’s megaphone announcing you’d followed me over and not resurfaced. When I found you, I dragged your body to what little shore I could find in all the rocks.”

“Christ,” John puffs out a breath in shock. Sherlock squeezes his hand, holding tight, and watching John’s demeanor carefully to assure he doesn’t upset him.

“I am not certain what actually happened to you upon impact with the water, but I believe I can safely say that you did not hit the rocks. Given you head injuries, it was a possibility,” the detective is speaking slowly, trying to control his temper and desire to kill Moriarty with his bare hands. “However, striking the rocks from that height most certainly would have killed you. In any case, you were not breathing. I was able to resuscitate you just as Greg and Molly made their way down to us.”

John’s lips twitch up into a faint smile, in spite of his shock at the events Sherlock describes. He feels a little ridiculous for what he’s thinking, given the serious nature of the conversation, but he cannot let the opportunity pass. He clears his throat.

“You performed CPR on me?” he asks almost shyly.

“Yes,” Sherlock is confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Didn’t you once say that would never happen in your lifetime?” John teases. Sherlock sighs in exasperation. 

“Yes, when I said that, I was referring to the man on the street. There’s quite a marked difference between that and my fian…” he stops short, looking at John with wide eyes and a frightened expression. He has said too much and he doesn’t want to overwhelm John with his secret way of viewing their relationship. Fortunately, John does not seem to have noticed and is giggling almost uncontrollably now. Sherlock lets the corners of his own mouth turn up and leans in to touch foreheads, which calms John laughter.

“You have saved my life again, Sherlock. In so many ways.”

“But?” the detective prompts, sensing his hesitation. Not meeting Sherlock’s eyes, ashamed by his own questions and insecurities, John sighs and asks in a quiet voice.

“What if he’s still out there? What if he comes back for me?”

“John, look at me and listen to my voice.” John tries to say something preemptively, but Sherlock covers his mouth with gentle fingertips. “No. No, don’t say anything.”

John looks at him in earnest. Sherlock pauses a moment to steadily meet John’s eyes, wanting to give him every confidence that his words are true. When he does speak, it is in his calming and sensuous baritone. The sort of sound that could make chocolate melt.

“There is evidence to suggest that no one could survive that fall without help and there was no one to help Moriarty. Logically, logically,” he repeats to keep John still, “he could not have survived. But if he does return, he will not harm you. I will never let him take you from me again. I love you, John. More than anything. My life is over without you. I will never leave your side.”

Now finished, he looks into John’s eyes and is relieved to see that they are calm, his body relaxed. He smiles almost shyly at Sherlock again.

“I know. You’re the same... You are my heart. You complete me.”

Sherlock brings their foreheads together again and speaks barely above a whisper.

“My heart and my life are yours. I intend to spend the rest of it with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Welcome back to Persistence. 
> 
> I hope you aren't disappointed that I skipped over the actual watery rescue and flight off the island. It isn't as important to my way of thinking than John waking up, or he and Sherlock being reunited, for that matter. Reading through this for edits made my heart melt. The two of them finally meeting eyes, talking to one another... They had to kiss. They just had to. They are my two pieces who fit together perfectly and everything is falling into place again. I hope you all love this chapter as much as I do.
> 
> As this new Part begins, I want to thank you all for your love and support. It's already been a long and sometimes stressful undertaking (it's not over yet), and I couldn't have gotten this far without all of you. I truly hope you are enjoying this as much as I am and that you'll continue to follow my two lovable idiots as they learn to heal and live together again. I look forward to your thoughts and feelings.  
> Much love always, Jane


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interrogation and some snuggles.

Greg Lestrade steps out of the elevator to see Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper lingering around in the hall where they agreed to meet. He glances at his watch - 7:58 - not late then. They both perk up when they see him approaching. Exchanging hellos, the trio walks down the hall to John’s hospital room. When they stop in front of the closed door, they all face one another in a little circle of conspiracy.

“So, we’re still in agreement? Sherlock eats breakfast and goes to Baker Street to clean up and change,” Greg begins, his eyes seeking approval while he wishes he wasn’t a party to this. The immoveable detective is a pain in the ass on a good day. Trying to pull him away from John Watson’s side is going to be a new form of hell. Fortunately, he isn’t alone in this endeavor.

“And we all return here this evening to escort him back home,” Mycroft nods. “He will sleep in his flat tonight.”

“It’s not going to be easy, but he needs a decent night’s sleep,” Molly lets out a puff of air, contemplating the task ahead. “He hasn’t even tried to sleep since this whole thing started.”

Greg shakes his grimly, looking from one to the other. Mycroft shifts his weight to lean on his umbrella and eyes them both closely.

“We are all still prepared to use whatever means necessary? Including, but not limited to, manipulation and force?” When he receives a nod from both, he redistributes his weight again and holds the umbrella in one hand. “Very well then.”

“Right,” Molly steels herself and steps forward to knock on the door lightly while opening it. She walks in cautiously, the two men following closely behind. Before she can say a word, they all freeze to the spot in shock at the scene. Molly smiles first, tears already prickling in her eyes. Sherlock is lying on his side next to John, an arm draped over John’s naked torso and a hand resting on his hip. John is on his back with his head turned into Sherlock’s neck. Mycroft’s brows arch and Greg stifles a giggle. As though he knows he’s being watched, Sherlock opens his eyes sleepily and looks across the room at them.

“Getting some rest then, I see?” Greg saunters toward the bed, hands on his hips and a grin on his face. Sherlock raises a brow, clearly unamused, and sits up slowly so as not to wake his sleeping doctor. Greg stops abruptly and holds out his hands like he is trying to placate the detective.

“Don’t let me interrupt.”

Sherlock shoots him one of the more spectacular “You are an idiot” looks in his arsenal and turns to glower at Mycroft. Rising to his full height, he speaks sharply to his brother.

“Come back to ‘check’ on me? Really, Mycroft, you are so predictable.”

“Someone has to, Sherlock.”

“Your concerns are unfounded,” he replies petulantly. “I have been sleeping, as you can see.” He flashes a fake smile. “Now you can go.”

“Sleeping, yes,” Mycroft says coolly, “but for how long, brother mine? Not long enough, I’m sure.”

The two men glare at one another and Molly’s eyes dart from one to the other. She steps near to them and begins speaking nervously in an attempt to break the tension.

“How are you, Sherlock? How’s John?”

“Good,” Sherlock answers tightly after he briefly considers ignoring her. “He is resting.”

“So, he’s been awake then?”

“He awoke early this morning. We spoke and he ate a little. Finally consented to rest two hours ago. He gets very irritable when he’s tired.”

“I heard that.”

All eyes turn to the man in the bed, smiles on every face.

“Sleep well?” Sherlock asks, suddenly very attentive. “How do you feel?”

“Fine. Help me up, yeah?”

Sherlock offers a hand and John takes it, pulling himself up to sit and talk to the others. He winces and his vision blurs for a second. He grasps Sherlock’s hand tightly and then loosens up a bit, but shows no other signs of discomfort. His flatmate meets his eyes with concern, but John’s face is peaceful again and it eases Sherlock’s mind.

With a huge smile on her face, her eyes brighter than John’s seen in a long time, Molly comes in close and hugs him tenderly, but hesitantly.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you awake! I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Thanks, Molly. How are things?”

Molly studies him a second, knowing immediately what he is asking after. Against all odds, and in spite of her guilt over betraying him, her smile widens and she says warmly.

“Good. Things are wonderful,” she searches his eyes when he smiles back at her. John’s smile falters a bit, wondering why she also seems so sad. She bites her lip and holds herself together. “We have to talk soon. Okay?”

“Okay,” John gives her an encouraging nod, confusion in his eyes. Molly nods back and steps away to allow Greg to move forward. The DI wraps his arms around his friend carefully.

“Good to see you, John. You have no idea.”

“Oh, I think I do,” John’s voice is quiet. Greg gives him a sincere nod and steps back again to stand next to Molly. John simply nods to Mycroft, who returns the gesture.

“So, how’re you feeling, mate?”

“Well, I’ve been better,” the doctor says with a little chuckle.

“Getting along all right then?” Greg smiles, gesturing at Sherlock knowingly. “This one hasn’t been bothering you?”

John laughs openly this time and Sherlock’s heart flutters in his chest. He had not even realized how much he missed John’s laugh, his smile, the way his whole face lights up when he is happy. The detective sighs quietly and contentedly.

“I really do feel better than I look, Greg, honestly. But I am stupidly tired, if you can believe that.”

“Aw, John. It’s funny, isn’t it?” Molly is misty-eyed. “How you can still feel so tired after a coma.”

“A COMA!?” John blurts, his eyes bugging. The steady pace of monitor beeping suddenly increases. “How long was I in a coma?!”

Their smiles turn into an expression one might wear while tiptoing over thin ice or through a minefield. Three pairs of eyes slide over to Sherlock, who looks back at them with exasperation. Obviously, he had not mentioned this matter to John in their previous conversations. Molly grimaces, realizing just how far down her throat she has shoved her foot.

“Um...five days,” her voice is timid.

“FIVE DAYS! JESUS CHRIST, SHERLOCK!!”

“John,” Sherlock begins carefully, standing next to the bed now, “it’s possible that I may have failed to mention a few things when you were awake before.”

“Oh, you think so?!” John replies, fully pissed off. “What the fuck, Sherlock! We were talking for hours!”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t think you should mention the fact that I’ve been in a coma for five days?” the smaller man growls. “What else did I miss?? Mycroft get engaged maybe?! Did you rearrange the flat?”

“John, I was imparting a lot of new information and you had been unconscious for some time,” Sherlock explains, ignoring his absurd suggestions. “They had to sedate you after you awoke the first time and spoke to Mycroft. I did not want to repeat that.”

John huffs, but is quiet. Although he is still furious that he wasn’t given all of the information immediately, he cannot fault Sherlock’s logic. Instead, he grumbles and turns his attention to Mycroft.

“What about you? Sherlock says Jim went into the water too. Have you found him?”

Sherlock winces at the familiarity of Moriarty’s name, but says nothing. Neither escapes Mycroft’s notice as he silently observes everything. The elder Holmes, straightens up and addresses John professionally.

“His body has not been recovered. We performed a very thorough search. He is presumed dead. Washed out to sea.”

“You don’t know that,” John’s eyes are wide with panic, his anger forgotten. “You don’t know.”

“It’s the only logical conclusion.”

“He’s done it before. He’s faked his own death before.”

Everyone starts talking at once, interrupting and talking over one another in an attempt to calm John. His heart monitor beeps nearly uncontrollably with every word.

“He can’t have known we were coming or that he would’ve fallen off that cliff,” Greg reassures.

“He knows everything.”

“You only survived because Sherlock dragged you out and resuscitated you,” Molly is saying.

“Plans for everything.”

“He would’ve been knocked cold with no one to help him,” Molly continues.

“Steady, John,” Greg touches his shoulder, finally noticing the monitor and growing very uneasy.

“There was no one there to pull him from the water,” Mycroft’s voice is stern. “He drowned.”

“He’ll wait, like he always does,” John’s voice wavers, his free hand trembling. Greg steps closer and squeezes John’s shoulder. Now Mycroft sees the monitor as well and begins speaking in a lower, kinder voice.

“John, calm down. Try not to breathe so quickly.”

“He’ll wait just long enough… “ John continues, taking a shallow breath with difficulty.

“John, please slow down, Try to breathe,” Molly begs, her voice laced with concern. John ignores them completely, fully consumed in a panic attack.

“...so I feel safe and then he’ll…” gasping for air “...and then...he’ll...find me.”

Sherlock suddenly surges forward and bends over John. He cups his face in his hands and looks into John’s deep blue eyes, their noses inches apart. Instinctively, John’s hands grasp at Sherlock’s shoulders as he continues to gasp for air.

“John, listen to my voice. You have always loved its depth and timbre. You have told me on more than one occasion how pleasant it is, how relaxing. Just listen to my voice for a moment and breathe. Breathe slowly. Don’t worry about actually hearing me. I’m not going to say anything relevant. It’s not important. Just breathe with me and listen and calm. That’s it.”

As Sherlock has spoken, John has not taken his eyes off of him. His breathing has slowed considerably, as has the beeping heart monitor. Sherlock keeps mumbling ‘Good, John, good.’ Wordlessly, John buries his face in Sherlock’s neck and squeezes his hands tightly. He wants to be close to Sherlock. As close as he can without jumping into the man’s suit with him.

“My Sherlock,” he whispers so quietly that only his flatmate can hear. Sherlock brushes his fingers over John’s hair as he pulls away and touches their foreheads together. John swallows and whispers again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I will do anything for you.”

They remain this way for a few seconds too long and the moment is spoiled when Mycroft clears his throat loudly, reminding the two men that there are other people in the room. They separate and Sherlock takes a step away from the bed, standing at his full height and facing the others.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say we are happy you have been reunited. However…” Mycroft begins. They all look at him. John in curiosity, Sherlock eyes him suspiciously, Molly looks apprehensive, and Greg like he is preparing to go into battle. “I am certain the nurses will bring breakfast to John soon and you need to eat as well, Sherlock.”

“You must be joking,” the detective quips incredulously. “You forced me to have dinner only last night.”

“It is now hours later, brother mine. I’m sure Miss Hooper and the Detective Inspector will be more than happy to accompany you to the cafeteria and make sure you eat more than a packet of crisps.”

The tall detective crosses his arms over his chest and glowers at his brother. Mycroft just gives him a false smile and gestures toward the door. Greg and Molly start to move closer, descending upon the detective with no intention of letting him get out of this. Mycroft turns to John and speaks in a low voice.

“There is something I would like to discuss with you while my brother is indisposed.”

“No,” Sherlock says loudly. “You can discuss it with both of us.”

“Oh, can I? Is that happy announcement I have waited for so long finally on the horizon?”

Sherlock fumes, but John catches hold of his fingers before he can lash into Mycroft. He turns his head, his silver eyes gleaming as they meet John’s peaceful deep blues.

“It’s not worth arguing about. You need to eat and if Mycroft wants to talk to me, let him. He probably just wants to ask me something about Jim. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

“Really, John? Really?” the detective throws a hand up in frustration. “Are we having this conversation? We are only just reunited and you want me to go?!”

“No, of course not. But you did promise me you would eat something later when you didn’t have anything with me earlier. You need to keep your strength up too. I can only imagine what the last few weeks have been like for you.”

“Not nearly what they were for you,” he replies tenderly, then in a more normal tone. “I said I would eat later.”

“ **This** is later,” John smiles and touches his cheek. “Please, Sherlock. I’d feel a lot better.”

Sherlock studies his flatmate for a moment and his breath catches. In spite of all that has happened, the nightmare John has faced, he still has that bashful look of innocence in his eyes as he asks this of his friend. His honesty and humanity have not been lost to torture and isolation. Another little piece breaks free from the fear looming in Sherlock’s chest, replaced by a spark of hope that John will be able to recover more fully than Sherlock expected. Inhaling deeply and pursing his lips, the detective shakes his head in consternation as he studies the amazing man sitting before him.

“You are a criminal.” He strides to the door and leaves the room, Molly and Greg hurrying after. Mycroft trails behind them and closes the door, twisting the lock as he faces John and approaches the bed.

“Did you just lock the door?” John asks with a brow cocked. Mycroft does not respond right away, taking a position close to the bed. He leans over John with a harsh eye. John pushes back into his pillow, trying to stay calm against the trigger.

“How did you know? Did Moriarty know? Did he tell you?” the taller man snaps suddenly.

“Know what?” John tries to stay calm, his eyes already wide. “What are you talking about?”

Mycroft fixes him with an icy stare that John cannot help but feel down to his soul. He shudders and tries not to think of Jim’s cold, black eyes. Mycroft leans closer. John stands his ground and tries to stay calm.

“You were tortured.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” John swallows hard, trying to keep his voice neutral. “More mental than physical.”

Mycroft glares at his bandaged shoulder, his arm in a sling. John follows his eyes.

“Obviously,” he furrows his brow. “Mycroft, what is wrong with you?”

“Did he lay his claim?”

“What?”

“Did he burn you? Did he put his initials or his name on you?” Mycroft demands, moving a little closer. John can’t help but pull his head back and close his eyes against the man’s glare. It’s Mycroft. It’s bloody Mycroft Holmes. But all John can think of is Jim shoving his face at John’s and breathing over his mouth, touching him. His body shudders and he looks at Mycroft angrily. What the fuck is he doing? Does he somehow NOT understand how PTSD works? Why is he acting like this?

Ready to lash out, but hearing his own rapidly beeping heart monitor, John tries to settle himself. 

“He was going to, but I escaped and ended up jumping off a cliff,” he answers in what he thinks is a steady voice. John studies the elder Holmes carefully as he considers John’s words. Just like that, it suddenly comes to John. He knows what Mycroft is on about now and he frowns, disappointed. “You think he tried to turn me. You want to suss me out, see whether or not he succeeded in brainwashing me. He didn’t. He didn’t have the chance to try.”

“Why not?” Mycroft narrows his eyes.

“He had several projects ongoing. The most time-consuming was the plan to kill you. I heard Sherlock got in the way though.”

“He did.”

“Yeah, Jim wasn’t at all pleased,” John tries not to think about what happened when Jim returned to the island.

“I’m sure he wasn’t. Why do you call him Jim?” Mycroft replies curtly and is suddenly breathing down John’s neck again, startling the doctor.

“He...he demanded it.”

“And if you didn’t comply?” he presses. In a truly uncharacteristic move, John looks away instead of snapping at him. Seeing a weakness he can exploit, the elder Holmes hardens his gaze and moves in for the kill. “How do you know he wasn’t pleased?”

“He told me,” John fidgets with the covers and avoids Mycroft’s stare.

“He told you,” the man replies flatly. “Is that all? Tell me what he told you!”

John turns his head sharply and looks him in the eye, temper flaring, eyes blazing.

“What do you want me to say?! He came back pissed as hell, knocked me six ways from Sunday, and fucked me…” he closes his mouth with a snap. He hadn’t meant to say that and certainly not so bluntly. Still looking at Mycroft, John is completely taken aback by what he sees. The interrogator standing before him has melted away to reveal what John can only imagine is the man Mycroft Holmes hides inside himself. The older man wears an expression of shock and sadness. One John never expected to see on the aristocratic face the man who is always nosing into his business in the name of protecting Sherlock. Mycroft’s whole demeanor and posture has changed in the blink of an eye, and the person John has come to know over the years seems to be another man all together.

“I...I had no idea,” Mycroft stutters in a quiet voice. John stares at him in disbelief.

“How could you NOT know?” John spouts in confusion. “You know everything. He did it the first time I was taken too.”

Mycroft shakes his head slowly, speechless. Unable to believe what he sees and hears, John struggles to make sense of all this. Hadn’t he told Mycroft himself when he was rescued the first time? Was it some kind of dream? Surely Sherlock or Greg said something. But if the look on Mycroft’s face is any indication, he truly did not know.

“I’m sorry, John,” he says finally. “If I didn’t believe him dead, I would end him immediately.”

“Yeah, well,” John nods and shifts on the bed, “you’d have to wait in line.”

“I’m sorry to have put you through this too,” Mycroft lifts a hand and gestures between them. “But I had to be certain that Moriarty did not learn to control you in some way.”

“Forget it,” John replies. “I understand. You’d do anything to protect Sherlock.”

Something flickers in Mycroft’s eyes at the mention of his brother’s name. He looks at John very seriously. 

“Have you told Sherlock?”

“Not this time. Not yet, but I intend to. I’m not going to lie or keep secrets. He hasn’t ask yet, but he knows.”

“He doesn’t want to hear it,” Mycroft supplies. John just runs a hand through his hair and his lips thin into a straight line. Mycroft continues, “If there is anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks,” then with a quick and shallow laugh. “Please, change the subject.”

“Of course.”

“What were on about anyway?” John asks right on the heels of Mycroft’s response, changing the subject himself. “Something you thought Jim might have told me?”

John watches as Mycroft clears his throat and shuffles about, his body language screaming of his discomfort. It is another sight so unusual that John begins to wish the others would return and put an end to this interview entirely. When Mycroft finally speaks, he does so grudgingly.

“I was referring to your apparent knowledge of my...betrothal.”

“Your betrothal,” John repeats. A few seconds of awkward silence pass as he tries to wrap his head around what he is being told. Suddenly, his whole face brightens as a grin spreads across it. “Oh my god. Mycroft, that’s fantastic!”

“And a closely guarded secret. Even Sherlock doesn’t know.”

“Really?”

“My brother is very perceptive, as you know,” Mycroft gives him a sideways glance, “but he has been very distracted of late. The same can be said for the Detective Inspector.”

“Right,” John says, pressing his lips into a line again.

“I have too many enemies, John. Far too many. Hence, the secret.”

“But you’ll live together once you’re married, yeah? How will you hide it then?”

“We won’t,” he sighs. “I can do many things and we have discussed all of the options that presents, but have found nothing we can live with.”

John opens his mouth to speak, but doesn’t get the chance when the doorknob starts rattling. Loud knocking soon follows and they hear Sherlock’s voice.

“It’s locked. Mycroft!” The knocking quickly becomes pounding. “Mycroft, open this door!”

Obliging, Sherlock stumbles into the room when the elder Holmes casually opens the door. Molly and Greg are right behind him. The tall man eyes his brother suspiciously.

“What’s this all about?” Greg starts in. “Why the hell was the door locked?”

“Because he thinks Moriarty may have brainwashed John,” Sherlock says before the other two men can answer, his voice dripping with fury. They might have known Sherlock would deduce Mycroft’s plan immediately.

“What?” Greg stutters, truly dumbfounded.

“It’s fine. It’s all fine,” John rushes to end the conversation peacefully. “Just leave it, please. ALL of you.”

“Gladly,” Sherlock is still glaring at his brother, but more than willing to change the subject. He casts his eyes on Molly and Greg. “I believe the three of you planned to drag me to Baker Street for the night. I will not go with you, and there is no place I will sleep better than by John’s side.”

“Well, the idea was that you would leave now, have a shower, and come back here,” Molly admits. “And, yes, we were going to return and collect you this evening.”

“A shower can wait. I will not leave John.”

John says nothing, but shares a look with Molly and finds her full of empathy. She is surely an amazing woman. Without him saying a word, she understands John’s feelings entirely. He knows he should let Sherlock go, have some time away from the misery of hospital, but he is not ready to be alone yet.

“Why don’t we all go?” she says. “Let them be alone for a while.”

The other two men look at Molly with surprise plain on their faces. Then they look to the couple with skeptical eyes. As John watches them all, he can’t help but see a certain sadness in Molly’s eyes that has not left them since they began speaking only a little while ago. She should be bubbling over with joy and excitement. He makes a mental note to make sure they talk later, as she insisted.

“Yeah, all right,” Greg agrees reluctantly. “The two of you have been apart long enough. And he doesn’t smell that bad. Yet.”

“Don’t let him keep you from your rest, John,” Mycroft adds as he nears the door. As Greg follows, still grinning at Sherlock like an older brother who is convinced he’s hilarious, he points toward John.

“Make sure he takes a kip, right?”

Once the door has closed again, and the duo is alone, they entertain themselves talking and watching films. Sherlock normally finds telly mostly intolerable, but he has discovered the hospital’s on-demand feature and selected one of his favorite films. John can’t help but shake his head as they watch a woman dance and sing through an ice castle, building it as she goes.

“I still can’t believe you like this movie,” John comments with a little laugh.

“It is a very powerful story.”

“It’s a kid’s movie.”

“We have had this conversation before, John,” Sherlock sighs. “Let’s not do it again.”

“Okay, okay.”

They spend the whole day together, eating and playing board games they persuade Greg to drop off on his way from one case to another. He complains and tosses a bag full of them on the table, but both of his friends can tell he is actually quite chuffed at being asked to do a favor. Molly comes by in the evening, bearing a piece of tiramisu from Angelo’s. The detective behaves with civility for John’s sake. For all his efforts, John still notices Sherlock’s hostility and resolves to get an explanation from one of them in the near future. Once Molly has left and they have eaten dinner, the two men gleefully feed the tiramisu to one another. John calls it a midnight snack, even as Sherlock insists it cannot be a midnight snack when it is only nine o’clock at night. John smushes a spoonful on the man’s nose.

After the snack, midnight or otherwise, is finished, Sherlock selects another film from the list of populars. He drops the remote on the table next to the games and climbs onto the bed, snuggling in next to John. The film is an action-comedy that neither of them has seen before. Between cases and the surgery, they seldom have time to see films when they are released in the theater. Sherlock is not a big fan of going to movie theaters anyway.

About half way through the film, John’s eyelids grow heavy. He really likes the film and wants to see all of it, but his exhaustion is catching up with him. His head nods this way and that, and he tries to deny that he’s tired when Sherlock asks. Smartass that he is, Sherlock pays no mind to John’s denials and flicks off the film, changing to one of the more soothing music channels. He rises and dims the lights. John makes no attempt at protest, watching him move through the room gracefully and taking hold of his hand when he nears.

“You look as exhausted as I feel,” John says with a quiet giggle. Sherlock chuckles and John rests a hand on his hip. Sherlock glances at John’s bandages.

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Okay,” John flinches.

“Your doctor mentioned instructing you to wearing a sling for at least two weeks after being released.”

John sighs wearily and closes his eyes, but opens them again just as quickly when he feels Sherlock’s fingers tracing lines on his bare chest. He watches him silently without the detective taking notice of it.

“I missed you so much,” the doctor whispers. As if in slow motion, Sherlock lifts his lashes and meets John’s eyes. John blinks in surprise to see that Sherlock’s are filled with tears. He lifts a hand to touch the man’s face gently. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” his voice breaks, a breath bursting from his lungs like a sob. “I should have found you weeks ago. I could have seen your clues the day you were taken, but I… I could have saved you so much pain, but didn’t. I failed you so terribly.”

“Hey, no, you did not fail.”

“Oh? What would you call it?” the detective snips and looks away. John takes Sherlock’s face in his hands, turning it so they are eye to eye, and wipes away tears with his thumbs.

“You rescued me.” His flatmate huffs and John continues. “Remember when you said you wouldn’t blame me? I will never blame you. None of this is your fault, or mine. It’s Jim’s fault. He’s the asshole.”

“Right,” Sherlock agrees with sad eyes. His gaze slides away from John’s, his face tilting down. John leans close and brings his chin up with two fingers.

“Now what was that look?”

“It’s nothing.”

John opens his mouth to protest, but decides to let it go for now. They have both been through so much already and he can tell Sherlock still feels guilty about the clues and the note. He drops his hands down to Sherlock’s and tugs. A small smile pulls at the corners of the detective’s mouth and he climbs onto the bed. They snuggle together and meet eyes.

“You are everything to me. I will go nowhere without you,” Sherlock whispers sincerely. 

John gazes intently, searching his flatmate’s eyes. He sees everything in those silver eyes and knows Sherlock can read his own deep blues just as easily. John kisses him gently, slowly. When their lips part, Sherlock stares at John with loving eyes and cuddles him close. He traces fingertips over John’s chest again. The ghosted motion relaxes John to the point of near sleep. Sherlock’s scent lulling him off, feeling like home. John closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Even as sleep overtakes him, John hears his lover’s sleepy voice whispering close to his ear.

“I love you, John...Hamish...Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought our duo needed a little more down time before being pulled into something dangerous again. Plus, Mycroft needed this chance to make sure John is still the John we all know and love.
> 
> It looks good for John's recovery so far. Will things change once he's back home at 221B?  
> What will happened when they start taking cases again?  
> I know there are more questions, but all I'm going to say is Mycroft!! WAT???
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter. As you can see, this part is much more subdued than the last, but how long will that last? You all know me, after all. (infamous eyebrow waggle) Thank you for all the love and support, and happy reading!  
> Love, Jane


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost time to leave the hospital. 
> 
> **John talks about his time on the island, but nothing too graphic.**

A few days later and John is scheduled to go home the next day. While he has been dying to go home to familiar surroundings and his own clothes, his own things and the life he shares with Sherlock, he is also full of nervous energy. He and Sherlock have spent a significant amount of time in his hospital room, readjusting to one another. In fact, Sherlock has seldom left his side - talking, laughing, bouncing ideas off one another. It’s been wonderful. Sherlock told him about Jim’s plan to explode Mycroft and a piece of Parliament along with him in more detail, as well as other foiled schemes. He stops every so often and worries that he is talking too much, but John always assures him that he is talking the perfect amount. Each time, Sherlock smiles shyly and blushes and kisses John softly.

Sherlock catches him up on Mrs. Hudson, who has caught him up on Sherlock in return during her visits. Even though it was clearly a very difficult time for his flatmate, Mrs. Hudson manages to put a positive spin on every story and John can’t help but smile because she sounds much like she is talking about a son, not just a tenant. Likewise, John smiles during Sherlock’s stories when he refers to Greg with more friendship and affection. He rarely mentions Mycroft and, even though they were not on particularly good terms before the kidnapping, John is certain something happened between them while he was away. He makes a note to himself to ask Sherlock about it at some point, as well as what happened between the detective and Molly. He never speaks of her and bristles coldly when John brings her up, no matter the context. He often finds some reason to leave the room when she visits, even though it is obvious he would rather stay and throw Molly out.

In any case, the sum total of his days in hospital have assured John that he and Sherlock will be just fine when he moves back in. Better than fine. Being with Sherlock is not what worries him. It’s  **being** with Sherlock that troubles him.They have shared many kisses and touches over the last few days, some quite heated, but they have not gone beyond a certain point. John has been shirtless the whole time and Sherlock has touched his skin, which is always fantastic, but he has only ventured as far as John’s belly once or twice. Even that was very hesitant, and any lower is off limits.

This is both a relief and cause for concern to John. First, while he definitely wants Sherlock to touch him and fully intends on having sex with him again in the future, he does not want to now. It’s just too soon. The fact that Sherlock is clearly more than willing to give him all time he needs is a comfort. However, John has no idea when he will be ready to resume a proper physical relationship and, as patient as Sherlock can sometimes be, he can also be a brat. How long will the man be able to wait? What if he gets tired and wants out? Suppose he brings home another man some night to make it clear that he wants something different. God, that would kill John. He knows he should just talk to Sherlock about it, but that makes him nervous too. So, he keeps all of his feelings to himself and muddles through.

John sits silently in the hospital bed, gazing at the wall across the room without seeing it. His eyes are wide and a few small steps from panic. It is early afternoon. Sherlock left nearly three hours earlier, promising to be back in two. He was somewhat vague about what he was up to, but John knows it has something to do with the flat. Perhaps he feels obliged to tidy it before John’s return. Whatever it is, John is thinking about being back home now and his mind is charging full-on into every fear of what could happen.

While he may be, in many ways, scared out of his mind, John is also frustrated.  He has never been one to panic, has always been solid as a rock and calm under pressure. Even before all the catastrophe that is war, John was well prepared for stress. Being a combat medic only solidified his resolve. So what the fuck is wrong with him? He has never worried like this. He has always taken things as they come and look at him now. Of course, he knows the answer. So does Sherlock. That’s why neither of them has said anything about it directly. PTSD.

“Hey,” a warm voice greets John. He jumps in surprise, nearly knocking over the glass of water on his tray table. “Shit! Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No trouble. It’s nothing. I was just...somewhere else, I guess,” clapping a hand on his thigh, John redirects all his attention to the DI. “So, what’s up?”

“Mm. I had some time and thought I’d pop in. See how you’re doing. Where’s himself?”

“The flat.

“Oh, getting the place ready, eh?”

“You heard I’m going home tomorrow.”

“Yep,” Greg eyes him carefully. “You’re nervous?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I wasn’t made detective inspector for nothing.”

“Right,” John answers with a short, nervous laugh.

“You wanna talk about it?”

John looks at him hesitantly. He’s not sure how to explain or even where to begin. Greg just waits, looking at him with kind, brown eyes. John licks his lips and launches right into it.

“You have to understand. I have no idea how I’ll react. It was a disaster last time. I could’ve killed him so many times and this was for so much longer and was so much worse.”

Greg nods thoughtfully, listening very attentively.

“He’s been nothing but understanding. I just don’t know...  I’m afraid I’ll punch him in the throat the first time his hand strays below the waist.”

“I see where you’re coming from. After your last experience, it makes sense that you’d feel this way.” John looks at him expectantly, seeing that he isn’t finished. He continues with the most genuine expression John has ever seen on him. “Honestly, John, that’s not what I see.”

Greg scoots his chair closer to the bed and leans in as if he’s telling John a very serious secret. “Your demeanor is nothing like it was last time. There’s no comparison. You’re not afraid to touch Sherlock and you don’t hesitate for a moment to let him touch you. You trust him. And you shared a very intimate moment in front of me, Molly, and Mycroft. Bloody Mycroft! And didn’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Okay, so maybe it is different somehow,” John replies pensively, “but I don’t know that any of it means the nightmares won’t start. That I won’t start to pull away again.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“You sound like my therapist.”

Greg shrugs and revises the question.

“How does  **he** make you feel?”

“Free. Like I’m home. I feel safe in his arms and I don’t want to be anywhere else.” The words spill from John’s mouth before he can even think about them. Greg has a pleasant and surprised smile on his lips when John’s mouth snaps shut in embarrassment. The doctor’s cheeks flush pink when he sees his friend’s face and he looks away. They both jump when the door to the room flies open and a certain tall consulting detective strides in.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I wanted...Lestrade. I didn’t know you would be here.”

“I thought I’d pay John a visit and congratulate him on going home tomorrow, but I was just going,” Greg stands. “If you two need anything, please let me know.”

“Thank you,” the two men talk over one another. “Thanks, Greg.”

As soon as the DI has left, Sherlock turns his head toward John and smiles. He quickly removes his coat and scarf and sits in the chair Greg just vacated.

“As I was saying, I meant to be back earlier, but I wanted everything to be ready at home and it took longer than I expected. I should have called you.”

“It’s fine,” John sighs, taking the man’s larger hands in his own. “But we do need to talk before tomorrow.”

Sherlock steels himself for what is to come, for the worst possible circumstance, just in case. While John has been very receptive to him, he knows it guarantees nothing and he can see in John’s eyes that something is troubling him. His next words come out as more of a statement than question.

“About the events of the last 47 days.”

“Yes. And about living together again. I think things will need to be...different for a while. I don’t know how long. I just… I have some requests.”

“Oh,” Sherlock tries to hide the disappointment in his voice and the flicker of despair in his silver eyes. “Of course. I can move my things into your old room tonight if you’d like. You can have as much space as you need.”

“What?” John’s brows shoot up to his hairline. “No. God, no. That’s not what I’m talking about. Not at all.”

“It isn’t?” Sherlock studies him with curious eyes. John shakes his head with a smile of endearment on his face. Then the smile fades and he bites his lip, looking down at the floor. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand and continues quietly.

“I can’t imagine being anywhere without you right now. In fact, I’m afraid that you’ll find me too needy and push me away.”

“That will never happen,” he replies with a note of indignance, but a playful gleam in his eye. John studies him for a moment and tries to find a way to explain himself. Sherlock gives his hand a comforting squeeze now, encouraging him to continue. John wets his lips and speaks in a quiet voice.

“The only way for this to make any sense is for you to know what happened to me while I was with him,” he looks up again and meets his detective’s eyes. “Are you up to that?”

“John, I once said I would listen to all you want to tell me and help in any way I can. That still holds true. Whenever you are ready, whatever you want to say, I am here. The decision is yours.”

John looks at him in silence. He had thought about what to say, how to begin for the better part of the night while he lay awake in Sherlock’s arms. He thought he was prepared, but now the words escape him. He can only look at his flatmate’s face and imagine what it will look like once he starts talking. The thought is too much to bear, but he can’t go back now. He doesn’t want to go back.

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. John’s eyes are already moist and he lowers them in shame. Before he even notices Sherlock moving, his arms are wrapped around John and pulling him close. Sherlock wants to tell him he doesn’t have to say or explain anything, but he knows how John Watson works. He not only wants to tell Sherlock, he needs to tell him. Keeping it bottled up will suffocate him, give Moriarty power over him, and there is no way John Watson will live under that man’s thumb.

Sherlock loosens his hold a bit and looks into John’s eyes, deciding the best thing to do is try to prompt John so he feels he has a place to start from. He slides his hands back down to hold John’s and speaks quietly.

“He sexually assaulted you,” Sherlock starts. From the pain in his eyes to the way his voice caught in his throat over the word “assaulted”, John can imagine every torturous thought and feeling in Sherlock’s mind.

“Yes,” John whispers. Sherlock’s eyes well up. “Every night.”

An uncontrolled breath of shock escapes Sherlock’s lips, his eyes wide in despair and disbelief. John watches as his face crumbles. He is powerless to stop it, but he opens his mouth to try. Before he can do anything, Sherlock suddenly jerks his hands away and rubs them furiously over his own eyes. John’s eyes go wide and his stomach drops, feeling like his every fear is coming true. Sherlock won’t want him anymore, doesn’t want him anymore. John’s soul is cracking and falling apart piece by piece, never to go back together again.

John watches as Sherlock struggles with his own emotions. He feels as though he’s dying a little more with every passing second, but knows that he can’t stop. He must tell Sherlock everything or it will haunt him the rest of his life and he won’t, he won’t let Jim control him. 

“He...he started by drugging me. Then he used threats. It started becoming really violent after about a month.”

Sherlock’s breath catches and John stops. Tears are streaming down both men’s faces. Visions of the last two months play out in John’s mind in seconds and he is suddenly crushed under the burden he has carried. Guilt and shame, betrayal. Everything he has tried keep from destroying him since the night he first broke and succumbed to Jim’s demands presses down on his chest and his head. The pain of it is incredible. Sherlock could never want him again, not after what he has done. John would have thought he’d be rendered mute by these realizations, by the despair. But instead, words begin to pour from his mouth like a dam that burst.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. God, I’m so sorry. I said I would never go to bed with him. I promised myself. I promised you! And then I...I did. I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t fight. I even fucking kissed him when he told me to. He came back again and again, night after night, and he never let up and I just went along with it and I wanted… I wanted to die. But he was always there and he said he would kill you if I didn’t do it. And I did nothing to stop him. And now I’m so broken...I’m... God. HE FUCKED THE SOUL RIGHT OUT OF ME!”

“John!” Sherlock grasps his arms firmly, but gently and looks deep into his eyes, hoping with all his might that touching John this way doesn’t upset him. That it isn’t too much like Jim would have done, that it doesn’t bring back memories of rape and torture. John goes silent in an instant. He looks lost and lonely, so lonely. Sherlock feels so overwhelmed after all of John’s rambled words, but he keeps himself together. He focuses entirely on John. He needs to help John right now, more than anything. He speaks steadily and quietly and makes sure never to break eye contact with his flatmate, the man he loves and wants as his husband, the man he must comfort somehow.

“You did not allow him to do anything. You were not willing and coercion does not change the fact that he forced himself on you. It was emotional, as well as physical, torture and it was vicious. You are not at fault or disloyal or damaged. You have done no wrong against me or our relationship, John. None. He used your greatest loves against you and he relished in it like only a madman would.”

John shakes his head and bites back sobs, wanting to believe Sherlock, but fearing that what he thinks he is hearing is not actually what Sherlock is saying. Suddenly, his eyes go wide in horror as his mind replays everything he just said to Sherlock. Somewhere in all those words, he made one too many confessions. He told Sherlock the one thing he did not want to say - that Sherlock himself was what Jim used to get John into bed.

“Oh, god!” John gasps, his hands flying to cover his gaping mouth. “I didn’t want to tell you. I wasn’t going to tell you!”

“John,” Sherlock squeezes his arms gently, exhaling in quiet anger at Moriarty’s cruel manipulation. “It’s all right. You can tell me anything you need to.”

“No, not that,” John repeats sadly. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“He used me against you and you are afraid of how I’ll react,” Sherlock states calmly, trying to help John work through things to ease his mind.

“Yes, yes,” John’s breath shudders in his throat. He can see that Sherlock is angry. He tries to hold it in, but John knows. He knows that their relationship is over. Jim has stolen John’s greatest love. “You...you don’t want me.”   
“What?” Sherlock’s voice raises in disbelief, his eyes wide.

“I’m...I… You could never want me after the things I’ve done. It’s okay. It is. I understand.”

“No. No! Listen to me, John,” he tries to follow John’s eyes and meet them again. “I love you as much as I ever have. I want you. I want to be with you. Now and for my whole life. I want to marry you.”

“You don’t,” he replies quietly. “You couldn’t. Not after I…”

“I do,” Sherlock interrupts him. He cups John’s face in his hands and captures his gaze with the most serious eyes. “I love you, John Watson. Nothing that has happened or will ever happen is going to change that. You are the other half of my heart, the part of my soul that was always missing. No matter what Moriarty did to you or forced you to do, my feelings for you, my opinion of you will not change. It has not changed. I admire you and trust you and respect you...and love you. Please believe me, John, because every word is true.”

John is sobbing openly now and nodding his head, bobbing in and out of Sherlock’s warm hands. His free hand grasps at that slim waist and it feels amazing. Sherlock feels amazing. And John is beginning to have hope again.

“I do. I do believe you. I believe you,” he buries his face in Sherlock’s neck and cries, his whole body trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, John. Nothing at all.” He wraps his arms around John and holds him tightly, tucking John’s head under his chin and kissing his head. John clutches at his body and sobs almost uncontrollably. The two men remain this way for some time. Sherlock comforting his doctor until the sobbing begins to lose its intensity and the quaking of his body lessens.

Sensing a change of pace is necessary, Sherlock climbs onto the bed with John. They are both lying on their sides. For John, it means lying on his left side and not being able to hold Sherlock, his right arm in the sling as it is. But still being wrapped in the detective’s long arms more than makes up for it. John sighs and rests his head against Sherlock’s chest, feeling warmth spread throughout his body, making what was once cold warm again. Alive. He blinks slowly, a serene expression on his face. Somehow, in spite of everything, John feels safe and loved with his detective. As the last tear falls, he feels something stir in his chest. Something he hasn’t felt since he was taken from Sherlock’s side. A small smile finds his lips as he snuggles in closely and lets his body relax completely.

“John?” Sherlock’s deep voice is quiet and gentle. He pauses a moment, stroking John’s hair softly. “I know there is more you want to tell me, but give yourself some time. I’m not going anywhere. Get some rest now. We can talk again when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” John breathes and closes his eyes. Sherlock’s shirt is soft and smooth on John’s skin, like the perfect pillow for his head to rest on. God, how he missed this. He missed this man so much.

***

“He never stayed the night with me.”

Nearly an hour had passed since John broke down and found refuge in Sherlock’s arms. He still can’t believe how quickly his mind was quieted from the living nightmare with just Sherlock’s touch. He looks down at those large hands where they rest under his own. Both men are still on the hospital bed - Sherlock with his back propped against pillows and his legs apart, John in between them with his back resting against Sherlock’s chest. The detective’s long arms encircle John’s torso with his hands on John’s bare belly. John’s shorter arms rest upon Sherlock’s arms. He slowly traces circles and other patterns on the backs of those large, comforting hands. He leans into the warmth of his flatmate’s chest and suddenly wishes the fabric of Sherlock’s button down was not between them.

“I don’t really know why he always left in the night. He was definitely off the island every day to handle business. Maybe it was just a way to make sure I didn’t try to follow him.”

“He used a helicopter?”

“Yes. I only saw it once, but I can’t imagine he ever used a boat. There weren’t any good docking points.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. John looks down at their hands again and speaks quietly, ashamed of what he must say next.

“He wanted me to fall in love with him.” He feels Sherlock’s body tensing. “I...I told him I loved him once. When he did this,” John gestures at his shoulder. “He slashed it open and just kept pushing the knife in deeper and deeper, demanding I say it. When I refused, he just pushed harder. I thought it would come out through my back and I couldn’t…”

His voice breaks, his throat suddenly incredibly dry. He licks his lips and glances around for a glass of water, anything. The constant beeping in the room has quickened, but begins to slow almost immediately when he feels Sherlock’s warm, comforting breath on the nape of his neck and just behind his left ear. He turns his hands palm up and closes his fingers around John’s. Sherlock’s voice rumbles deeply.

“You need only tell me what you feel you can. I don’t want to cause you any additional pain. Your experience was bad enough. I know you want to be honest, but you are under no obligation.”

“I know. I want to tell you. I don’t want there to be any dishonesty or secrets centering around Jim Moriarty, nothing that could come between us someday. I won’t allow him the satisfaction.”

Sherlock nods behind John’s head and squeezes his hands, both in an effort to give comfort and to settle his own nerves.

“I respect that and I understand, but please don’t push yourself too hard. There is time for all of this. I will always be with you. No matter what happens, we are in this together.”

John can’t help smiling at the concern in Sherlock’s voice. Such feeling and emotion from the man who believed when he was told he didn’t have a heart. He curls the fingers of his left hand and strokes the palm of Sherlock’s hand with his fingertips. 

“So,” John inhales deeply and blows it out through his lips. “Back to those requests I mentioned…”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies assertively. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, like I said, just some things I’d like us to do differently,” he pauses, uncertain if he should carry on or if he should even ask anything of Sherlock. He licks his lips and continues hesitantly. “Is this fair?”

“Is what fair?” the detective voices his confusion. “Your being kidnapped? What Moriarty did to you, how he tortured you? No. No, it’s not.”

“I mean my asking you to do anything, to change anything. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I may not have been the one to hurt you, but someone did and I want to aid you in your recovery any way I can. I love you, John. More than I could ever hope to convey with words. Besides, I am quite certain you will not ask me to do anything I am uncomfortable with. Go on, please. How can I help?”

“Okay,” John licks his lips again. This time it is a delaying tactic. He can see that Sherlock is eager to help him, but still feels a little strange asking him to. John clears his throat and dives in. “Please don’t leave me in bed alone. If you need to leave, just wake me up before you go. I think waking up alone will make me think of him. Er, remember nights with him.”

“I think I can manage that,” Sherlock smiles, squeezing John’s hands and nuzzling his neck in hopes he won’t feel as alone as he sounds. “Okay if I snuggle you once you’re awake?”

“Yeah,” he huffs out a quiet laugh. “That would be perfect.”

“Good. Anything else?”

Sherlock unintentionally blows a warm breath across John’s skin when he grins against his neck. It makes John shiver and the tingle of arousal glimmers through his body. He closes his eyes and opens them again quickly, trying to concentrate on his words to Sherlock.

“Please don’t call me ‘love’. I know you don’t and any kind of nickname has probably never even occurred to you, but he called me that. All the time. I hated it.”

“I can certainly understand that. And, for the record, I have put some thought into a name that only I call you.” John blinks in surprise. “But I have settled on nothing. That was never one of the options.”

“You have thought about giving me a nickname?” John asks with a note of disbelief.

“I have. Does that surprise you?”

“Yes,” John answers, turning slightly to meet his eyes. “Frankly, yeah, it does.”

“I am not without the desire to show my affection in ways that are singular to me,” the detective shrugs. His flatmate chuckles and turns to settle his back against Sherlock’s chest again.

“You never cease to amaze me.”

“I hope you can still say that when we are old and grey.”

John smiles and looks down at their hands. He clasps the fingers of his left hand around Sherlock’s and pulls it to his own belly tightly, worrying his lips. He would hold the other hand like this too, but cannot, so he just squeezes Sherlock’s hand instead. John has absolutely no idea how to broach the last topic on his mind. He stares straight ahead for a moment, trying to sort through his thoughts. Finally, John sighs deeply and steels himself. Might as well pull of the plaster all in one go.

“Sherlock...I have no idea how sex is going to work. Or when it’ll work, or how I’ll feel about… “ he shakes his head in doubt. “It was...after the last time… I have no idea how I’ll react to anything. Greg says I seem different, but I don’t really know what that means or if it’ll translate into anything positive.”

“It’s all right, John. I understand,” his flatmate whispers. “I have no intention of pushing you into anything. You can take all the time you need.”

He presses comforting lips to the skin behind John’s ear. The breath that accompanies it sends a shiver through John’s body and his eyes flutter closed. If he had known that part of his body was so sensitive, he would have directed Sherlock to it long ago. He tilts his head to give easier access and nudges a cheekbone with his ear. Taking the hint, Sherlock kisses him again. He is somewhat surprised that John is so receptive, considering what he just said, but Sherlock does what he promised and lets John dictate the pace. He inhales deeply, kissing John again and reveling in the warmth radiating from his neck.

A breath hitching in his throat at the second kiss, John reaches for Sherlock’s head and pulls him gently closer. His lips against John’s neck and unable to resist the temptation, Sherlock parts his lips and flicks his tongue along all the hot skin he can reach. John gasps at its delicacy, its soft heat. His cock twitches, half hard and very interested. His senses awhirl, John tries to ground himself. He can’t let this go too far. He doesn’t want to slip into a panic and do something to hurt Sherlock, but he doesn’t want to stop either. He has dreamed of being this close to Sherlock again. He has longed for this - Sherlock’s touch, his breath, his scent.

Sherlock nibbles at John’s ear tentatively, as well as his neck - this deliciously sensitive new erogenous zone they have discovered together. Does Sherlock know how it affects John? He can clearly tell that John doesn’t want him to stop. Can he tell his flatmate is so tightly wound right now he can’t even think? John nearly whines at the contact. He is so hard, he aches. He closes his eyes and lets his mouth fall open, leaning his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder. A low moan escapes his lips as he slackens back further against the detective, letting the hand that has been holding Sherlock’s head fall limply to his side. He breathes heavily enough to give Sherlock reason to doubt his pleasure.

“John?” craning his head to see John’s face. “Are you all right?”

“God, yes.”

John sits up, quickly turns over onto his knees, and pounces on Sherlock. He crushes their lips together, his free hand full of silken curls. Shocked, Sherlock’s jaw drops and his hands dart up to John’s waist, debating whether to try and stop him or grab on tight. His mind soon comes to a complete halt when John’s acrobatic tongue dives into his mouth. He finds himself grasping at the sides of John’s rib cage, but loosens his hold when John’s body tenses in pain. He slides his hands back to John’s waist and, when he is sure John is comfortable again, Sherlock throws himself into the kiss. Sucking on John’s tongue, letting it twirl around his own, biting gently at John’s upper lip when he bites at his plush lower one.

Sherlock slowly begins to pull John down onto his body as he sinks back into the pillows until they are more or less horizontal. John pulls his hand free from Sherlock’s hair and yanks the sling up over his head. Moving his right arm may hurt his shoulder, but not enough to keep him from his lover. He kisses Sherlock again, letting his hands meander along that lean body, touching every curve. For a fleeting moment, a wave of concern for the doctor flashes through the detective’s mind. This position can’t be good for his shoulder or his ribs, but all thoughts derail once again when he feels John hard and pressing against his body. Sherlock gasps and his hips twitch against John’s, their lengths rubbing together. A deep, low moan escapes from his throat and is swallowed up into John’s mouth.

John shifts his legs so one is on each side of Sherlock’s body and pushes himself up with his left hand, grimacing at his pained ribs. Soon he straddles the taller man, looking down at him. His fingers are clumsy with desire as they scrabble at the top buttons of his shirt. He leans forward over his flatmate, ignoring any pain, and captures his mouth in a fevered kiss. Licking into Sherlock’s mouth and having no luck with the buttons, John growls in frustration and grabs a fistful of shirt in each hand. Yanking it open, buttons pop from their threading and fly through the air, clicking on the floor when they land.

“Jesus, John,” Sherlock shifts his hands and tries to push John back gently. They need to talk before they go any further. He needs to get some distance between them, even just a little, so they can talk. He turns his head to the side a bit to escape John’s persistent lips and tries to speak. “John. John, we need to talk.”

John breaks from his mouth and meets his eyes with wide pupils. Sherlock nearly breathes a sigh of relief, but gasps instead when John swoops in and devours his long neck.

“Oh, god! John!” Sherlock cries out in a quiet voice. Spurred on by his reaction, John mouths and licks and kisses and bites down that pale column of neck to Sherlock’s chest and takes a nipple between his lips. “Oh, fuck!”

“Oh, shit,” mumbles a voice near the room’s entrance. Sherlock’s eyes widen and John twists to see Greg standing in the doorway. Almost immediately, the dull pain John had successfully ignored sharpens and shoots up his side to his shoulder, as well as across his ribs. He cries out in pain and drops onto Sherlock like a sack of potatoes, which only brings him more pain. Sherlock grabs at him quickly, but gently and starts to turn him onto his left side. Greg scrambles to the bed to help. The two men carefully lower John onto his back. He squints his eyes open to see blurry stars popping in and out of his vision. Sherlock is standing on one side of the bed, Greg on the other. 

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” John replies through clenched teeth.

“Sorry, mate,” Greg apologizes. “I didn’t expect to walk in on anything like that.”

“It’s fine,” John clenches his eyes shut in pain. Sherlock’s calm voice cuts through the darkness.

“What do you need?”

“Vicodin.”

He hears some shuffling and then feels a small, plastic cup against his lips. He takes the pills in his mouth and drinks when another cup meets his lips. He allows himself a couple of deep breaths before he opens his eyes and looks at the two men. The stars have gone, but his vision is still a bit blurry. John knows it will improve quickly enough.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. He closes his eyes again and tries to relax, letting out a little sigh. He opens his eyes to see Greg and Sherlock exchanging a look of concern and curses under his breath. Sherlock fixes him with worried eyes and smoothes back his hair. John smiles to himself at the tall man’s tenderness, usually saved for private moments between the two of them. Although said look quickly fades when Greg catches Sherlock’s eye. The DI’s eyes have dropped down to study the shirt John ripped open moments earlier. His eyes lift to focus on Sherlock’s face once more, not even trying to hide his smirk. The detective glances down and then glares back.

“I walk in on the funniest things now that you two are together,” Greg smirks. He squats to pick up a button from the floor and hands it across John to Sherlock, who frowns at him mightily and crosses his arms. John’s eyes shift from the smile to the frown a few times before he takes the button from Greg, since Sherlock isn’t about to.

“What are you doing here?” the detective accuses. “I had the impression that you did not intend to return.”

“Well, no, I didn’t, but…”

“But?”

“Uh,” Greg’s eyes momentarily shift to John, “we had a good talk yesterday and I was in the area. I just thought I’d check in and see if it was all settled.”

“Ta, Greg,” John smiles, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. “That’s very kind.”

“But extremely inconvenient. Are we to have no privacy in this god forsaken place?”

“You’re just put off someone caught us,” John teases.

“No, I’m not!”

“In your state of undress,” he continues with a smile. Sherlock huffs, pulling his shirt closed roughly, and stalking across the room. John and Greg share an amused look before Greg dons a more sober expression.

“So, you’re not as concerned as you were when we spoke before, I gather?” the DI asks in a hushed voice.

“Hm? No, I’m concerned. I’m terrified,” John glances at Sherlock, who has his back turned. “But things look good so far.”

“Very good, I’d say.”

“A bit, yeah,” John grins, and then it fades. “But I don’t really understand why. I thought everything would be just like the first time, only worse.”

“Well, you never know,” Greg flashes a brilliant smile, trying to keep the mood light. He clears his throat loudly, glancing at Sherlock conspiratorially as he turns to face them. “I’ll just be off then. You two seem like you have more things to talk about. I’ll see you both at Baker Street soon enough.”

He raises his brows at the detective and nods before disappearing out the door. John smiles to himself and looks at Sherlock. His smile fades once again, this time when he sees Sherlock’s furrowed brow and mouth bent down in a frown.

“What is it?”

“You know I hate to admit weakness,” Sherlock chews on his lips. ”When I can’t…”

“Deduce something immediately?” John supplies. Sherlock looks mildly surprised, but it fades quickly into something akin to pride. He walks to the bed.

“I should know better than to think you don’t know my mind.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” John laughs.

“I would. You know me better than anyone ever has.” John reaches up and touches his face. Sherlock looks at him fondly, but the curl of his mouth eventually droops again. “I can’t reason this out, John. It doesn’t make any sense to me and I don’t want to...mess it up.”

“Mess what up?” John shakes his head in confusion. “I’m totally lost.”

Sherlock rests a hand on John’s chest and looks at John with such sincerity and uncertainty, it melts John’s heart.

“You just finished telling me you don’t know how things between us will work. That you don’t know when you will be ready to resume a physical relationship, but you are certain it won’t be for some time, and then you do this,” Sherlock gestures to his own shirt, now held closed where he tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.

“I did rather attack you, didn’t I?” John regards him timidly, his cheeks pinking.

“Rather,” the detective says incredulously.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I don’t even understand it myself. I don’t know what to expect and would never have imagined us just falling into bed for a good snog. I was with Jim for so long and it was...shattering. He did everything he could to crush me. He started torturing me. He wanted to break me so I would help him. Distract you while he killed Mycroft and god knows what else.” He grasps Sherlock’s hands tightly with both of his and hugs them to his chest, looking deeply into Sherlock’s eyes. “The first day he let me explore the grounds, I found that cliff. The one you found me on.”

Sherlock can’t suppress a shudder, knowing what John is about to confess. Part of him wants to look away, but he will not. He will be strong and steady and everything John needs him to be.

“I was standing on the edge. Ready to just step off. Apologizing to you for not being strong enough to cope. After the first kidnapping, I couldn’t imagine living that way again.”

“Shh,” Sherlock wiggles a hand free and cups John’s cheek. “It’s okay.”

John smiles, tilting his head, eyes filling with love for his amazing detective.

“You make me feel so safe. I feel like I can do anything, make it through anything. And sometimes I just want to be as close to you as I can be, like close isn’t close enough. I missed you so much. All of you - your mind, your company...your body. I feel complete in your arms. I was so hopeless without you and when I was on that cliff...” releasing a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “If it hadn’t been for Mary, I don’t what I would’ve done.”

Sherlock frowns at the mention of that name. John mentioned her a few days after he awoke. Sherlock didn’t like the sound of her then and still has his suspicions about Mary Morstan now.

“Why was she on the island?”

“She was employed as the grounds keeper.”

“And Moriarty let you roam the grounds?”

“Well, yes.”

“With her lurking around.”

“Look, I know it doesn’t make any sense,” John begins, but Sherlock interrupts in a skeptical, but authoritative tone.

“Was she afraid of him?”

“No. She didn’t know anything about him. She just worked for him.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, furrowing his brow. John continues quickly, suddenly feeling he must explain himself for befriending her. The conversation was fairly limited the first time he mentioned Mary and he wasn’t able to convey any specifics.

“We started eating lunch together as often as we could. I wanted to figure out whether or not I could trust her, and I wanted to see if she would tell me where the island was. She thought I was a guest trying to regroup after a bad breakup.”

“And I’m sure she was charming, doing all she could to comfort you in your time of need,” he says cynically, his hands going cold somehow within John’s, his eyes becoming hard and distant. “Naturally, she was willing to share information and talk all afternoon. Who wouldn’t want to spend as much time with you as possible? You’re...you. Brilliant, charming, friendly.”

“Where is all this coming from?” John asks, startled. “Why would you…” his expression hardens. “You think she was working with him. You think she manipulated me the whole time.”

“John, what are the chances that Moriarty would employ a random woman to walk freely on a private island, where you are his prisoner and could run into her at any time, especially when he wants to keep you in utter isolation with only him to rely on for human contact - social, sexual, or otherwise?”

“I said I know it doesn’t make any sense, Sherlock, but if you knew how much time I spent sussing her out, how shocked she was when she discovered what Jim was doing, you would know what I do. She was NOT working with him,” John insists, his temper flaring.

“I’m sure you were very diligent in your efforts, John, but you have a fairly trusting nature,” Sherlock replies dismissively. “It may not have been all that difficult for an attractive woman to pull the wool over your…”

He stops short, suddenly listening to what he is saying. Applying the same logic to John that he would to any simple-minded idiot involved in a case, in spite of the fact that he has much more faith and confidence in John’s intelligence than anyone else on the planet. Accusing him, point blank, of falling for the charms of a woman even as he has committed himself to Sherlock, as if John has no control over himself at all or would be deliberately untrue to said commitment.

Sherlock closes his eyes in regret. He can practically hear John’s blood boiling. When he opens his eyes to look at John cautiously, the man’s neck and face are crimson. Sherlock opens his mouth, searching for the words to explain, though he can scarcely believe it himself. He is jealous, fucking jealous. Images of John and some faceless, no doubt, gorgeous woman eating and talking whenever they could while he had been in London, starving for John, yearning for him. Childish and stupid as it was, he wanted to show John that he is a better mate than she could ever be and that John was a fool to ever trust her. He let himself grow cold and clinical, giving no consideration for sentiment - love, loyalty, kindness. God, how he has fucked up. And now, here is John, lying on the bed in front of him, more furious than he has ever seen him. The doctor’s eyes are on fire, his hands no longer holding Sherlock’s, but clenched into fists at his sides. Sherlock raises his own with the palms out in an effort to calm his irate lover.

“John…”

“She is my friend. I would have gone mad on that island without her. She is not some kind of…” clenching his teeth, jaw tight with anger. “Get out.”

“John,” Sherlock’s eyes are wide and pleading. John pushes at him, and he stumbles back off the bed and onto his feet. “John, please.”

“Get out,” John’s eyes are dark with anger, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ll be home tomorrow. I don’t want to see you again before then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can hear all of your voices now. "NO, JOHN, NO! Don't fall for Mary's trap! Don't turn away from Sherlock! AHHHHH!"  
> Am I right? Am I right? (diabolical laughing) You all keep telling me the peace is beautiful, but cannot last. Well...unfortunately, you're right. I really feel like I shouldn't be so tickled by the prospect of my beloved readers tearing their hair out or hiding their eyes behind their hands, hoping John says "Oh, no, wait. Don't go, Sherlock. I'm being ridiculous. You're right. There's something very suspicious about Mary. Let's snuggle a bit and figure out what it is." Sorry, friends., but you'll just have to wait and see what happens. No hints.
> 
> While we're on that subject though, I was planning to get chapters out faster than I have been. Things haven't been working out and when I do edit, I've found that the chapters are so long that it takes quite a while. In addition, I want to apologize for any spelling errors or other issues in this chapter. My little nose-miners kept chatting with me and otherwise demanding my attention while I was editing. I am definitely still working on releasing chapters more frequently, so hang in there with me.
> 
> Thank you again for all the LOVE and SUPPORT! Your hits, kudos, and comments combine into a huge shaft of gold when all around is dark.  
> Love, Jane


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What John's thinking about after the row.  
> Sherlock sneaks back into the hospital.

3:30am and John has only just fallen asleep. Cooling down after he sent Sherlock away took longer than it should have. John had been so angry, furious at his flatmate. What the hell did he think?! That he would just drop everything they had together and meant to each other because of a pretty smile and a warm body?! What the fuck. Did Sherlock still think so little of him? Admittedly, he had brought quite a parade of women through the flat before realizing and truly accepting his feelings for Sherlock. Maybe the detective honestly didn’t know what to expect from him. Maybe he still wasn’t sure if he was enough for John or if he could make him truly happy. 

Needless to say, John had simmered right down when he started contemplating the possibility that Sherlock was still very concerned and insecure. It certainly made sense. Sherlock told him he’d had relationships before, but freely admitted they weren’t anything like his relationship with John. As a general rule, Sherlock had limited experience with strong emotions. After thinking over all of this, John had wanted to apologize. He wanted to phone Sherlock and ask him to come back to the hospital, but it was one in the morning by then. He knew the detective probably wasn’t sleeping, but on the off chance that he was, John elected not to phone him. Instead, he flicked off his lights and laid down.

John thought he might not sleep well. After being unsettled by Mycroft and his questions, and then becoming so angry with Sherlock, he wasn’t surprised at all that it took forever to fall asleep. His slumber was fitfull as soon as his eyes closed and remains so even an hour later. John’s body twitches with tension, his head sporadically jerking from side to side as a scene plays out in his mind. 

 

_ He is back in his room on the island, lying on the floor, bloody and aching. Jim stands over him with a salacious grin. _

_ “Are you ready, love?” his lips press to John’s ear. “I want you. Now. Come here. Come for me, love.” _

 

“NO!!!! God, no!!!”

John sits up straight in bed, breathing hard and sweating. He looks around the room in fear, the panic slowly receding as he begins to see that he is safe in his hospital room and not on the island. The searing pain in his ribs hits him then and he falls back onto the bed with a thud, gasping as he would only do when no one is there to see. He rolls a little from side to side, clutching around his ribs, but stops when he catches sight of a quick movement in the shadows by the door. He gasps and holds his breath as he watches a figure emerge from the darkness. All of the air bursts forth from his lips in a kind of backwards gasp when his flatmate steps into the dim light of the bedside lamp. Turning toward him slightly, John greets the detective with a face that is a mixture of surprise, anger, and relief.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry, John,” his voice is quiet and uncertain, not sure if John is about to ream him out or welcome his presence. He stumbles over his words. “I haven’t been here long. I couldn’t stay away. I’m sorry. I should have respected your wishes.”

Sherlock intends to turn for the door and leave, but is frozen in place for reasons he does not completely understand. To his surprise, John struggles to sit up and holds out a hand as far as he can without increasing the pain in his chest, which turns out to be not far at all. It doesn’t matter when Sherlock hears his next words.

“No, wait. Come here.”

“No,” Sherlock replies doubtfully. “You were right to throw me out. I treated you badly, like a fool.”

“Sherlock.” He meets John’s eyes, cringing at the sharpness in his tone. John points at the side of the bed and says firmly. “Come. Here.”

Sherlock hesitates a moment and then walks toward him slowly, biting his lower lip. John watches him with steady eyes, a hint of irritation in his features. When he stops close to John, they share a meaningful look for a long while. John’s eyes are searching the detective’s and Sherlock can feel his own body tense as the second pass, waiting for the shouting that is soon to come. He opens his mouth to apologize again, but yelps instead when John’s hands shoot up from the bed and grab his forearms. John pulls him down. Struggling to catch himself, with minimal success, Sherlock comes to rest on John’s warm body. They are chest to chest. Sherlock would be more concerned about hurting John, but he caught himself quickly enough after stumbling to know his weight is supported and not by John.

John gasped when Sherlock first fell on him, but it didn’t stop him from wrapping the man in a tight embrace. The effort is painful for John’s wounded shoulder, but he persists. Worried that John is pulling him too hard and too close, Sherlock plants his hands on either side of John’s body and pushes himself up a little. He can’t get far with John’s arms around him, but he does manage to put a little distance between them. He looks at John, their noses nearly touching, concerned about the desperation of his flatmate’s actions.

“Are you all right? John, what is it?” Sherlock asks in a worried tone. His flatmate’s face is wary and his eyes frightened. John doesn’t answer right away, but when his voice does come, it is low and quiet.

“I can’t go back there. I can’t.”

“You will never go back.”

“But I already have.” John’s eyes are suddenly glittering with tears, his voice trembling. “It was a dream, but it was so real and he was there. He was on me, touching me. I can’t do this again. The nightmares and the fear.”

Sherlock gives up trying to put distance between them and returns John’s embrace. He kicks his feet up and shifts around until he is lying on the bed with John. Turning the frightened man onto his left side gently, Sherlock holds him tightly and brings the smaller man’s face to his shoulder. He holds him this way for quite some time and then pulls back a bit, putting a hand on one of John’s cheeks and looking deeply into his eyes.

“You are a strong man, John. Stronger than any man I have ever known. Even if there are nightmares, you will master them.”

“I don’t know that I can,” he shakes his head, his breath hitching.

“I do.”

A small smile appears on John’s face, along with his adorable matching dimples. Smiling back at the man he loves, Sherlock’s mind drifts into the room in his mind palace that is reserved for their future. This is where he keeps all of his husband visions. What would their lives be like as husbands? Much the same, he believes, and yet, all new and amazing.

“Sherlock,” John’s brow wrinkles at Sherlock’s far-away expression. “Are you okay?”

The door in his mind palace snaps shut and he blinks several times, looking at John curiously. John’s smile grows wider. Frankly, he is grateful for the distraction Sherlock’s behavior has offered and he pursues it to take his mind further off the nightmare

“You were far away. Where were you?”

“I was still with you, if that’s what you mean,” Sherlock runs his fingers through John’s hair. “Just thinking about our future. I do from time to time, you know.”

John lets out a little laugh and licks his lips. Sherlock looks at his teasing smile.

“Is it a nice future?” John asks. His nightmare is now the farthest thing from his mind and Sherlock aims to keep it that way. He casts a shy glance at John’s lips and returns his gaze to John’s deep blue eyes.

“Very,” he answers as John stretches his neck and captures the detective’s lips in a tender kiss. It’s like a jolt of electricity running through both of their bodies, originating at their tingling lips. Sherlock’s tongue slides into John’s welcoming mouth and lazily traces along his tongue and teeth, mapping out every detail. He smiles against John’s lips when he follows Sherlock’s lead and explores as well, caressing, slipping this way and that in perfect compliment.

A shudder from deep within courses through John’s body, leaving him lightheaded. He pulls his lips away from Sherlock’s and goes for an earlobe. Gasping for breath, Sherlock turns his head into the pillow so John can reach any place he likes. John kisses and nips and sucks until he reaches the Adam’s apple in the middle of that glorious neck, stopping for breath and to buck his hips against his lover’s body. Sherlock chokes back a cry of surprise and pleasure.

“God, I want you,” John whispers against his neck. “Sherlock...want you.”

“John,” he breathes. “Yes, John.”

His hands find Sherlock’s navy blue shirt and pull it from his trousers. He kisses those plush lips and then pulls away, his hands jerking the shirt open with a loud rip. They both freeze, staring at one another while navy buttons bounce around between them.

John bites his bottom lip and rolls onto his back easily when Sherlock nudges him and starts to sit up. Careful not to touch John’s ribs, Sherlock straddles his hips and looks down at himself. Not only has every button sprung free from its threading, but one side of the shirt is torn from bottom to top and is still in John’s hand. Sherlock raises his eyes slowly to meet John’s wide-eyed stare. John’s mouth has fallen open in shock. He glances quickly at the scrap of fabric in his hand and back at Sherlock.

“Sorry?” John says timidly. He watches a mischievous smile creep over Sherlock’s lips, his eyes narrowing conspiratorially instead of in annoyance. He slowly pulls the torn fabric from John’s fist and drops it to to floor. His fingertips tickle along John’s chest and belly, and back up his sides. The doctor wriggles beneath him, but stops when he sees Sherlock’s serious expression.

“You must tell me if you feel any physical or emotional discomfort,” his flatmate says in a deep and gentle voice.

“I promise.”

“Are you sure you want this?”

“God, yes. Please, Sherlock. I want to feel you.”

John grabs Sherlock’s lapels and pulls him down. He feels a jolt of pain around his middle at the effort, but ignores it and licks into his detective’s mouth. Sherlock is more than willing to kiss back and with just as much fervor, but he is also concerned with keeping his weight off of John’s body. From his position atop John’s hips, he plants his palms on the bed and holds his arms steady as though doing push-ups.

Sherlock continues to kiss John with all of his senses and powers of observation heightened. In spite of his desire and John’s, Sherlock is well aware that things could change in an instant. John might have a flashback or discover that he is honestly not ready for anything like this, and Sherlock must be able to see his discomfort as soon as it begins. 

Meanwhile, John has let loose of Sherlock’s lapels in favor of shoving the man’s open shirt and jacket off his shoulders and down his arms. He grumbles in frustration when he can’t even get them to Sherlock’s elbows. Caught up in the passion, but concerned about his flatmate and not going too far before he is ready, Sherlock starts talking in between heated kisses. 

“John (kiss, kiss) your ribs (suck, kiss) we can’t (lick) your shoulder (bite) Oh, god,” he gasps when John makes a particularly indecent sound with their lips.

“I’ll deal with it later.”

“John, no. Stop.”

“What? Why?” letting those gorgeous lips slip free, John looks at Sherlock with concern. He is pushing too hard. “Have I upset you?” he asks in worry, but the concern melts away when he sees the dangerous gleam in Sherlock’s eye as he sits up again. Every move as smooth as a stripper’s, the detective slowly pulls the jacket and shirt from his shoulders and drops them both on the floor with flourish. He leans over John again and wraps his arms around the man’s taut body. Rolling them carefully until he is on his back and John rests upon his body, he helps the smaller man into a comfortable position. They are now chest to chest, skin to skin, and it feels amazing. John is almost lost in the sensation, but his lover pulls him back to the here and now as his hands slide down John’s strong back and beneath the loose waistband of his hospital pajama pants. His smile grows wider as he caresses and squeezes the warm flesh of the pert bottom in his hands.

“Okay?” Sherlock questions breathlessly, still concerned for John’s welfare and convinced that he is some sort of super-human with a ridiculously high tolerance for pain. Sherlock looks him in the eye, watching scrupulously.

“Okay,” John nods.

Sherlock gazes at John with an intensity that sends shivers down his spine. He bends his neck and kisses John soundly. As every muscle in John’s body relaxes into jelly, he can’t stop himself from moaning into Sherlock’s mouth. All other thoughts and fears are driven from his mind, and he can think only of the man in his arms. From head to toe, all is Sherlock. John relishes in it, marveling at how this man can give him such peace. The fingers of John’s good arm are buried in soft curls, his own lips pressed against hot, full lips, their bodies touching from chest to thigh, their legs tangling together. Still locked in a kiss, he feels Sherlock gently pinch his bum.

As if reading Sherlock’s mind, John thrusts his hips. A stifled moan escapes the detective’s mouth at the unmistakable sensation of their erections rubbing together through thin layers of clothing. A deep growl rumbles from Sherlock’s throat and he does something with his tongue that John could never have imagined in the whole of his life. His mind goes completely blank. They rock against each other, chests rubbing, and hot skin and warm hands on his bum, and GOD he missed Sherlock so much! 

But it’s too soon. Too much, too fast. Too close. He’s so close and they’ve barely started. He wants it to last so much longer. It’s like their first time all over again.

“Christ...stop. Stop!” John blurts frantically. Sherlock stops rocking immediately and looks up at John, his pupils blown and full of fear. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m just...I’m so close. I didn’t want it to be this fast.”

Sherlock smiles in relief and huffs a laugh. His breath is is ragged and he looks at John, feeling overwhelmed, but so happy.

“I love you. I love you, John Watson. The words don’t mean enough. Not even a fraction of what I feel.

John gently places two fingers over Sherlock’s lips and shushes him.

“I know. I love you too. And please believe me when I say I want this. More than ever.”

With a wicked smile on his lips, the detective wraps them around John’s fingers and sucks lightly. John’s pupils dilate before Sherlock’s eyes as they gasp together.

“Oh, god. You are an evil, evil man, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock pulls his lips from John’s fingers with a salacious pop and slides his hands from John’s waist to his bum once again. As he begins to knead and John begins to moan, Sherlock inclines his head to mouth at the smaller man’s neck. Just as they are about to start again, Sherlock pauses, his breath rolling hot over John’s neck.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” John is breathless. “Okay, yes.”

“Tell me immediately if it’s too much.”

John nods quickly. Sherlock clutches the firm cheeks in his hands and draws them forward sharply as he thrusts his own hips. His mouth open in pleasure, he meets John’s wide eyes and eases his hold, only to thrust and clutch again.

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” John declares. “Perfect. You’re perfect.”

Sherlock continues slowly, always careful to gauge his flatmate’s responses, but he soon finds himself picking up tempo. John matches him for every snap of the hips. Both are groaning, their erections rubbing hard. Pleasure spins low in their bellies, their minds free of all other thoughts. Their bodies grow tense in tandem, rhythm faltering with uncontrolled shudders and jerks. They drive their hips together one more time and pulse into their trousers, both moaning quietly in hopes of not attracting attention from the nurse’s station down the hall.

When both men relax again, still breathing heavily, Sherlock helps John slip off his body and onto his back. He props up on an arm next to him and looks at his face, so open and relaxed and loving, but there is also discomfort and pain in his features. Sherlock leans back and takes a cup containing two small pills from the side table.

“Is it too soon for these?” he asks his beloved doctor. John shakes his head, taking the cup from Sherlock’s hand.

“No. I could’ve taken them a while ago. I was trying to avoid them.”

“Sorry.”

“Worth it,” John quickly swallows the pills and hands the cup back to Sherlock, who replaces it on the table. When he turns back, John’s eyes are closed, his breaths already slowing. Sherlock watches him awkwardly, not sure what to do next. What does John want him to do? Does he expect him to leave now? He wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. John threw him out. He snuck back in and was caught. They didn’t even talk about it or anything before they had sex. They hadn’t even spoken about the row that got him kicked out in the first place.

Sherlock studies John carefully, considering what to say. He opens his mouth to speak and then thinks better of it. It is very late, or rather very early in the morning, and John has clearly been asleep for only an hour, if that. Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of anything that has happened this evening. He can’t believe they just did what they did so soon after John’s captivity. It has only been twelve days since John woke from the coma.

Sherlock suddenly feels very guilty and worried. Did he just take advantage of John? He had just woke up from a terrifying nightmare and needed comfort, safety. Did Sherlock unintentionally use John’s delicate state of mind? Did he persuade John to do something he wasn’t ready for and didn’t want to do? He knows what John said, but John’s mood swings since he regaining consciousness have proved impossible to predict and nearly as difficult to make sense of. The detective looks at John again, his own face full of concern. John’s eyes are still closed and, even though he seems very peaceful, Sherlock is not certain how he should interpret it. Or anything.

Fearing the worst, Sherlock sits up and shifts to get off the bed, but John’s hand stops him with a firm grip around his wrist. They meet eyes and suddenly Sherlock has to know. He rushes to speak before John can say a word.

“Are you...okay?” he stammers quietly. “Was that even something you wanted to do?”

“What?” John furrows his brow. “Yes, I wanted to do it. I even said I wanted to. Why would you think...? Sherlock.”

“It’s only been a few days and you go so quickly from content to angry. I worry about you, John,” Sherlock tells him quickly. “You were just angry with me and when I came in here, you were in the midst of a nightmare. You were scared. Moriarty was hurting you again and then...we do this? Did I...take advantage of…”

“No. No, Sherlock.”

“You cannot deny that you are experiencing mood swings and, with it, confusion,” the detective interrupts, though his voice is more pleading than demanding. “I’m worried about you, John, and I don’t know if you wanted to have sex with me again so quickly or if I persuaded you to do it with my...insistence.”

“Sherlock, listen to me,” John looks up at the taller man with intense deep blue eyes. Sherlock has known John long enough to know those eyes by heart. Anything that comes out of John’s mouth right now is the absolute truth, no question. “You did not take advantage of me or my rocky emotions. No more than you persuaded me to do anything. Look, when we talked before, when I first came out of the coma, I told you that I don’t understand any of this myself and I honestly don’t. I’m as surprised as you are at what just happened. I never would’ve suspected things to turn out like this, especially after you rescued me the first time.”

Sherlock purses his lips and studies his doctor with a troubled gaze. John gives him a small smile in an attempt to ease his mind.

“I’m sorry this is so confusing. I honestly don’t know what to tell you,” John shrugs. “It’s entirely possible that I’ll have some sort of flashback the next time we get close. I don’t know, but I didn’t this time. I love you and I wanted this. I want you. I consider myself lucky every minute I spend with you. I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Sherlock can barely speak for the tears he is trying to hold back. John strokes his hand gently.

“We both are,” he tips his head up and Sherlock bends to kiss him softly and slowly. When the detective straightens up again, his eyes are misty. He smiles.

“You need some rest,” he draws away, but John’s fingers tighten around his wrist again. He gazes up at the taller man with emploring eyes.

“Stay.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies quietly and without hesitation. “Are there any spare trousers here?”

“On the shelf in the closet,” John looks both relieved and amused. Sherlock rises and goes to the en suite. He wets a flannel and cleans himself. Wandering back out into the room sans trousers, he gives John an alluring look and his own ass a little smack as he walks to the closet. He quickly locates two pairs of hospital trousers and pulls one on. He meets John’s eyes when he hears a giggle.

“They suit you,” John grins. Sherlock cocks a brow and looks down at the trousers he now wears, a full 12 inches too short. He gives John a cheeky smile.

“I’m glad you approve. They are very fashionable, aren’t they?” he starts to twist from side to side as if modeling. John laughs and immediately winces. Sherlock grows serious in an instant and strides to the bed, holding the other pairs of trousers. “Let’s get these on you.”

A few minutes later, they are both clean and in matching trousers. Sherlock climbs back on the bed and snuggles up next to John. He lies on his side and rests his head lightly on the doctor’s scarred left shoulder.

“Okay?”

John slants his head to look at his lover and smiles down at him, his eyes already heavy with sleep. Nodding quietly, he pulls Sherlock in close and lays a cheek on the man’s soft curls. Sherlock slides an arm around John’s waist cautiously and relaxes into his body. They both sigh contentedly, savoring the peaceful feeling surrounding them. At that moment, John knows with utmost certainty that what he told Jim on the island is true...without even setting foot on Baker Street, he is home.

Within minutes, John’s arm goes slack and his breaths even out, slow and deep. Sherlock smiles to himself and watches the man in his arms. Even in slumber, the corners of John’s mouth seem to quirk up into a small smile. Just like they used to. Sherlock spends what feels like a lifetime studying John’s face, memorizing every feature again. It’s only when his eyes travel down John’s body that the urge to urinate makes itself known. Sherlock kisses John’s chest lightly and whispers, in spite of his slumber.

“Be right back.”

He carefully slips away from him, stands and stretches, and then walks to the loo. After relieving himself, washing his hands, and splashing some water on his face, he opens the door and steps back into the room to see John’s bed is empty. His eyes pass over the small room quickly as he takes a few silent steps. Where the hell is he? Sherlock was only in the loo for five minutes.

“John?”

Without warning, a strong hand grabs his arm and whips him around, slamming his back against the wall and knocking the wind right out of him. Sherlock gasps and looks down at the man before him with wide eyes, John’s hands pin Sherlock’s arms to the wall. John’s eyes are wild with terror, his breathing is quick and labored.

“No,” John says in a quiet and edgy tone. He does not sound like himself.

“John?”

“Don’t go.”

“What?”

“Don’t leave me. Please,” John’s voice is shaking now. “He’ll come back and if you aren’t here, he’ll take me.”

John’s bandaged shoulder and, in fact, his whole arm, twitches uncontrollably. He would clearly be in pain if he wasn’t gripped by panic. Sherlock speaks calmly, trying to defuse the situation. While John may sound distressed, he does not sound angry and Sherlock wants to keep it that way.

“I won’t, John. I just went to the loo.”

John’s wide eyes stare into Sherlock’s, but he seems not to have heard him. His fingers dig into Sherlock’s biceps. He begins gasping  and tries to speak.

“Please...he’ll take me...I just…”

“John,” the detective bends his elbows so he can reach John’s arms. He cups the doctor’s elbows gently. “John, you’re having a panic attack. Try to calm down.”

He begins breathing very slowly and deliberately, trying to get John to follow his example. His fingers stroke John’s arms in a soothing, circular motion. “You are a strong man, John. You would be fine, even without me. I have never known anyone like you. You are a formidable force. The East Wind.”

Mimicking Sherlock’s deep breaths, John’s own begin to normalize. The longer he listens to Sherlock’s assurances, the calmer he becomes. Finally relaxing a bit, he wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck, shoulder be damned, and buries his face in the detective’s bare chest. Sherlock winds his arms around John’s waist, holding him tightly. 

As he continues to comfort his lover, his mind brings forth one of John’s requests from before. He grits his teeth.  _ Please don’t leave me in bed alone in the morning. If you need to leave, just wake me up.  _ He holds John closer for a time and then separates from him slightly to look into his eyes.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“What on earth do you have to apologize for?”

“I left you while you were sleeping immediately after you asked me not to,” Sherlock tells him in regret. John diverts his eyes and looks back, embarrassed.

“Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting that, a panic attack. I just thought I’d feel… Never mind. You don’t need to apologize.”

“John,” he begins, cupping the man’s cheek with one hand, “I forgot what you asked of me as quickly as you asked it. But I won’t be so careless again. I promise you.”

“I know. It’s okay,” he continues when Sherlock frowns. “You forgot. It certainly wasn’t careless. We both have a lot of things to get used to.”

“And we are in this together every step of the way. I will not tire of you. I’ll never leave you. This time in our life together will pass.”

“I know,” John repeats, smiling. “I love you.”

“I will always love you. Always,” Sherlock kisses him and John tucks his head under the taller man’s chin. Hugging John close and nudging his nose in John’s hair, he pushes off the wall with his bum and starts them in the direction of the bed. “Let’s get back into bed.”

John nods and begins to turn toward the bed with Sherlock steadying him until the taller man suddenly hooks an arm under John’s knees and sweeps him into his arms like a damsel in distress. For once, John says nothing in objection, but does narrow his eyes to look at the detective. Sherlock carries him to the bed and places him gently on the mattress before climbing in himself. Pulling the covers up around them both, he guides John’s head to rest on his chest and holds him close.

“Okay?” he asks John for what feels like the hundredth time, but he’ll never get tired of it or of hearing the answer.

“Okay,” comes the reply, barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

“I meant everything I said, John. I was not trying to simply calm you.”

“Mm…” the lovable man snuggles closer, “I know.”

After a few moments of comfortable silence, a small smile shows on John’s face - almost as if he can’t help himself. He opens his mouth only to stifle a giggle before he can speak.

“That was rather impressive. Carrying me to the bed. You know, for you.”

“Just because you think I’m too thin does not mean I have no muscle at my disposal,” Sherlock sighs. John giggles openly this time. Sherlock cannot stop a smile of his own when John giggles yet again. How he missed that sound.

“You certainly hide it well, in spite of your tight trousers and propensity for sex shirts.”

“I beg your pardon,” the detective says loudly and indignantly. “WHAT is THAT supposed to mean?”

“Button-downs so well-fitting that they’re practically undoing themselves. Buttons straining against their threads,” John smiles playfully as Sherlock cocks a brow. “I love them. Especially the purple one.”

Sherlock gives him a long-suffering look and John breaks into a fit of giggles. Unable to stop himself, Sherlock chuckles and soon they’re both laughing. John touches Sherlock’s cheek and rubs his nose along his chin. Sherlock settles a bit and smiles down at his perfect John Watson.

“Hey.” Sherlock looks about to ask a question, but John continues before he can. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs, knowing immediately what the doctor means. “Now, let’s get some sleep, shall we? We’ll both be too exhausted to move you back home.”

“Home,” John repeats fondly with a smile on his face, his eyes soft. They snuggle in close and both fall into a sound sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another snuggly chapter with our adorable lovers. Once again, the idea of John being so comfortable and feeling so safe with Sherlock is the idea behind why they were able to have sex. It also supports my belief, and I hope yours too, that these two men are made for each other. *sigh* I love them so. This was an all relationship and healing chapter and I loved writing it. I hope you all loved reading it. 
> 
> I know you're all suspicious, trying not to be lulled into all this bliss because I, the Evil JaneOfCakes, always end things with drama and devastation. "I will not be fooled, Jane!!" I can hear you say. You know I don't like to give anything away, but....you all may be right.
> 
> Da Da DAAAAAA!
> 
> I say it all the time, but I love each and every one of you and appreciate your support. Please keep reading and loving. Hearing from you means so much to me. A big shout out to my very own AGPatton for declaring the last chapter her new favorite. I got a little misty-eyed when I read that.   
> Love to all, Jane


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't want any spoilers, but this is a GREAT chapter.   
> Enjoy, friends!

John has been home for a little over two weeks now. One month since being rescued from Jim’s island. He is still somewhat restricted and, regrettably, a certain detective has made it his personal mission to see that John follows his doctor’s direction. His shoulder is healing well and he no longer has to use a sling. The mobility of his shoulder and arm is not what it used to be, but physical therapy is already helping. Having seen its effects firsthand with his left shoulder, John feels good about his progress and is certain he will make a full recovery. His doctor agrees wholeheartedly.

What his doctors are worried about, and is the only reason John has followed their recommendations, is the possibility of outside triggers and panic attacks. Admittedly, John has not had a single panic attack or flashback of any kind since he left the hospital and returned to the flat. As much as he wanted to go home, he had also been nervous about having flashbacks upon returning to the sitting room. It was the room Jim had taken him from with Sherlock lying helpless on the sofa. That was his fear, but somehow, he felt comfortable as soon as he entered the flat and even that room. With Sherlock by his side, he didn’t feel threatened or unsteady. It was home and he felt immediately safe. Given this response, Ella thought he should try to limit his ventures outside for a bit, which his medical doctor had already recommended anyway. Perhaps he could avoid possible triggers for a few weeks until John had recovered a bit more. It hadn’t even been two weeks since he was a captive on the island.

Given how things have gone the last two weeks, however, John feels like he could leave the flat now. Short trips to Tesco, maybe a quick walk. He doesn’t want to be overwhelmed, but getting out of the flat now and then would be nice. He has not consulted either of his doctors yet and, unfortunately, Sherlock is not so convinced John should make this kind of decision on his own. He wants to respect John’s opinion and abilities as a doctor, but it might be best to consult with the others before galavanting out in London. John has a way of demanding too much from himself at times. 

John has spent the last two days trying to convince Sherlock that a little trip to Tesco for some biscuits is not going to interfere with his progress, and he does not need to clear it with anyone else first. His next appointments with both doctors are in four days. He can talk with them then and go to Tesco in the meantime. He spent the whole morning trying to convince Sherlock to let him go to no avail. Then Greg turned up and dragged the man out the door for a case. Naturally, the beautiful git made John promise he wouldn’t go anywhere until Sherlock came back. John only agreed if Sherlock would go to Tesco with him upon his return. It’s all about compromise, John had said with a giggle. 

The time on his own has drifted by without incident since his flatmate’s departure, only cementing John’s notion that remaining in the flat is no longer necessary. Despite that, John has kept his promise and has dutifully replied to all of Sherlock’s texts. He does hope the detective returns home soon. Getting out into the fresh air would be a welcome change.

“Good lord, Sherlock, you just texted,” John chuckles when his mobile sounds again. But it is not Sherlock. It is an entirely different Holmes, and is a message John has awaited anxiously.

 

_ My apologies for the delay in responding to your request. Mary Morstan has not been seen or heard from since the day of your liberation. Most of her belongings were removed from her home in haste. I have had no luck finding her as yet. MH _

_ No trace at all? _

_ I am afraid not. Though I can tell you that she has lived a rather unremarkable life. Shall I send Anthea with the file? MH _

_ Not necessary. Thanks. _

_ You are very welcome. MH _

 

Mrs. Hudson comes up around 4 to have tea with John and leaves after an hour or so. He appreciates the company and indulges her by listening to all of the most recent gossip on Baker Street and Mrs. Turner. Honestly, if John didn’t know better, he’d think she believed him her son. She was unfailingly kind before he was kidnapped, but she seems to treasure his presence all the more now that he is back, and not just because she thinks he is good for Sherlock.

Shortly after Mrs. Hudson has gone, John settles in with a book. A good five chapters in and John hears the door to the flat open slowly. Assuming it’s Sherlock, John is about to call out when his mobile vibrates with a message from said detective about heading home soon. John’s eyes dart to the sitting room doorway that opens into the hall and listens as the door to the flat closes almost silently. Footsteps cautiously sound in the hall. He carefully opens the drawer in the table next to the sofa, removes his gun, and trains it through the door. A few more steps, the intruder is getting closer. John rises from the sofa silently, but stops dead when he hears a familiar voice echoing timidly through the hall.

“John?”

“Mary?” John cannot disguise the surprise and delight in his voice. As her footsteps quicken, John hides the gun in the drawer once more and smiles when she appears in the doorway. “Mary!”

She rushes to John and wraps him in a tight hug.

“God, John, I’m so glad you’re okay,” she declares, pulling away to look at him. “You look so much better! Being at home agrees with you.”

“And being with Sherlock,” he adds. Mary gives him a winning smile, but quickly shifts to a more serious expression.

“How did they get you off the island? Did they catch Moriarty? Is he in jail?”

“He’s dead, Mary,” John replies grimly. He immediately feels he should have said it more delicately, but Mary doesn’t seem at all disturbed. She answers him without missing a beat.

“Well, that would do it then. I’m glad he’s out of your life, John. He can’t hurt you ever again,” she pauses and lets her eyes run down John’s body, then back to his face. “I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger just now. Your landlady let me in and said to go on up when I told her I’m a friend.”

“No worries,” John waves a hand. “How did you find me?”

“How could I not?” Mary laughs. “Once I knew Sherlock’s surname, I found his website and your blog and everything else was easy. I knew my home was fairly isolated, but I do feel the fool. I had no idea about the two of you.”

“You must completely ignore the news. On any medium.”

“You’re damn right, I do” she cries, scrunching up her face. “Too depressing.”

“Can’t disagree with that,” John grins. They pause again to look at one another. Both off the island and not the worse for ware. John’s smile grows and he hooks his thumbs in the loops of his jeans.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am that you’re okay. Mycroft told me your house was abandoned only today and when I learned you hadn’t been seen, I feared the worst,” he shakes his head, looking quite relieved. “I’m just so glad you’re safe.”

“Mycroft?” Mary asks through a concerned smile.

“Sherlock’s brother.”

“Right, right,” knowing full well John had never before mentioned him, “And how did he know I left my house?”

“Mycroft knows everything. Well, he can find out anything.”

“Ah...and how does he do that again?”

“Does it matter?” John smiles brightly. He gestures toward the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, no, I’m fine. I just want to talk. It’s really good to see you doing so well.”

“Ta,” John nods and they sit on the soft together. He would love nothing more than to talk and find out where she has been for the last month, but that can wait for a bit.

“So, how long will you be here? I can’t wait for you to meet Sherlock.”

“Actually...I was thinking of staying for a while. Finding a flat, getting a job, the usual things,” she is smiling warmly, but looks a little nervous. “My life as it was is pretty much over. It’s time for something new and what better place to start than with friends?”

“That’s fantastic! Well, I mean, that’s not fantastic, but having you around would be…”

“Fantastic?” Mary grins.

“A bit, yeah,” John smiles widely. Mary puts a hand on his knee and leans forward when they suddenly hear the front door open loudly with a flurry of quick footsteps and angry voices. Or one angry voice, to be precise. Mary’s hand is gone in an instant and she straightens up, pulling away from John.

“No, I said Hoover poisoned the walnut cake AND the pudding. Wallace is allergic to nuts and Candice Hoover would never have eaten the pudding. He wanted them both dead, so he had to poison both.”

Sherlock and Greg stand stalk still as soon as they enter the sitting room and see a woman sitting with John on the sofa. She leaps to her feet, looking at them with a poorly schooled guilty expression. Sherlock raises a brow and narrows his eyes.

“Sherlock!” Conversely, John seems nothing but pleased. “This is Mary Morstan. Mary, Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s delightful to finally meet you,” she steps forward with her hand outstretched. “John has told me so much about you.”

“Charmed,” Sherlock replies, shaking her hand.

“And this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade,” John introduces the DI as he rises from the sofa. Greg steps up and shakes her hand with gusto.

“Cheers. So you’re the mystery woman who phoned Sherlock. Can’t thank you enough for that.”

“I was well on my way to finding John,” Sherlock comments somewhat haughtily. 

“Of course,” Greg agrees, “but the call certainly sped things up.”

“It was the least I could do. I only wish I’d done it earlier. Before…” she glances toward John, but shakes it off. Sherlock’s eyes narrow further at the familiarity. “I’m glad he’s back home.”

“No doubt. This one was going a bit mad without him,” Greg angles his head toward Sherlock, who gives him a sideways glare.

“And she’s moving to London,” John pipes up. The detective’s eyes widen and dart to focus on John and the woman.

“Chuffing heck, that’s great!” Greg hoots as his mobile sounds. He reaches for it, knowing it’s the call he expects. “I have to take this. Sorry. Good to meet you, Mary. I’m sure we’ll see more of each other.”

He nods to Sherlock as he leaves the room. Once Greg is gone, a bit of awkward silence overtakes the three that remain. John is smiling and looking from his flatmate to his friend, willing them to be friends. Neither of them is smiling, however. They each look as if they are sizing up the other.

“Well,” John begins, breaking the tension, “you should stay for dinner.”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s no imposition at all.”

“No, really, John,” Mary meets his eyes. “I have a lot to do and it’s already so late in the day, but I’ll see you again soon. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” John hugs her kindly with an expression of pure happiness on his face. Mary eyes Sherlock as she hugs John back. Sherlock can barely stop a scowl from forming. The expression on her face is smug. The detective cocks a brow and almost sneers. Mary’s face instantly becomes pleasant when John pulls away and starts walking her out of the room, but Sherlock steps toward the doorway and into their path. The other two stop and John looks at him with a question in his eyes. 

“Why don’t you let me see Mary to the door?” Sherlock says quickly. “I’d like to thank her for her assistance.”

“Sure,” John sighs, seemingly in relief. “Truth be told, I need the loo. I’ll see you again soon, Mary.”

“G’night, John,” Mary beams. 

Mary and Sherlock are quiet as they walk down the hall side by side. Sherlock wears the sort of critical expression he has when on a case because, as far as he is concerned, this woman is a case. He can’t shake the feeling that her presence on the island was not as coincidental as John believes and finding her in their flat only confirms his suspicions. He  **will** find out what she wants with John and will prove she was, and still is, working with Moriarty.

“Tell me, Ms. Morstan,” he speaks in a tight voice without looking at her. “How long had you worked for James Moriarty?”

“Uh, about two years.”

“And did he ever bring anyone else to the island?”

“Mm...no,” she frowns. “He went there mostly to relax. Get away from people who pissed him off, I expect.”

Sherlock doesn’t miss the barb, but ignores it.

“And you didn’t find it odd when John was suddenly there?”

“No,” she answers, her annoyance beginning to show. “Moriarty said he was a friend going through a rough break-up and that he needed a place to stay for a while to think.”

Sherlock stops just short of the door to the flat and glares at her.

“Why didn’t you help John before Moriarty could hurt him?” he demands suddenly.

“You don’t think I wish I had?! I didn’t know he needed help until it was too late!” she snaps, but quietly enough that John won’t hear. “Why are you asking me all this? John must’ve told you everything by now.”

“Indeed, he has,” the detective narrows his eyes. He reads her every move and expression like a book. She is hiding something. She knows much more than she is willing to say. 

They stand toe to toe, fire in their eyes. Each suspecting the other and wondering why John would place his trust in such a person. Mary breaks the silence sharply.

“I don’t think I like you, Mr. Holmes.”

“The feeling is mutual, Ms. Morstan,” Sherlock says as he steps to the side and opens the door. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she scowls, passing through the door and heading down the stairs.

***

That night, Sherlock and John settle into bed. The detective is on his back, eyes already closed, and hands resting on his belly. John has just climbed into bed and has not bothered with a tee, as has been his habit since coming home. He eyes the bandage on his shoulder. He will be free of it in a few short days and he is more than ready. Had Jim not cauterized the wound, John would be sidled with it for far longer.

John looks away from his shoulder to glance at Sherlock when he begins to snore quietly. He smiles to himself and giggles, watching his beautiful flatmate sleep. Sherlock almost never falls asleep before John, so this is a treat, and Sherlock is positively adorable. His brows appear raised in an innocence seldom seen on the detective’s face. It strips away a good five years from his countenance. His perfect lips are open ever so slightly, allowing for the gentle snoring. Unable to help himself, John touches those luxurious curls with his fingers. Sherlock inhales and stirs, moves his head into the touch, but remains in his slumber. John shuffles down in the bed so he is lying next to his detective. He props himself on his left elbow, he never thought he’d call his left shoulder the good one, and begins tracing his fingertips over his flatmate’s shirt buttons. His right shoulder is a little uncomfortable but not enough to make him stop. In fact, it is much better than it was even a few days ago.

By the time Sherlock stirs and opens his eyes, John has unfastened every button and pushed open the aubergine pajamas. He looks at John with sleepy eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but John leans in and covers his lips with his own before he can utter a word. When he breaks from the kiss, John smiles and brushes his nose against Sherlock’s.

“I feel a little bad about waking you. You were so cute.”

“Cute?” Sherlock wears a skeptical and slightly affronted expression, which only makes John giggle again. He nods.

“But I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Mm. I don’t, but you do need to rest.”

“Sherlock, I’m fine. You and I went to Tesco tonight and everything was fine. I’ll be cleared to go out on my own in four days and the bandage comes off then too. I’m more like myself than I have been in a long time.”

He looks deeply into Sherlock’s silver eyes. In a moment of inspiration and want, he teases Sherlock’s plush lips with the tip of his tongue. The two of them have done nothing overtly intimate since his last night in hospital. For whatever reason, every little desire John has felt over the last two weeks is rushing to the front of his mind right now.  

“I’m fine and I’ve had plenty of rest,” he fixes his detective with fiery eyes. “Stay awake with me.”

Seeing those eyes and hearing the roughness in John’s voice, Sherlock lets go of the thread of restraint he holds and turns on his side, leaning into John. He wraps his hands around John’s head, capturing that mouth with his own. Their tongues meet and lick stripes on one another, exploring and re-discovering. John pushes the shirt from Sherlock’s shoulder and sucks on his collarbone, eliciting a moan from his lover. 

Sherlock’s mind is a whirl of emotions and desires. Since John has been home, they have kissed and cuddled, but have done nothing else, for fear of breaking the spell of peace that has surrounded them. John has had no nightmares or flashbacks. Neither man knows if it is the result of avoiding sexual contact or something else entirely, and neither has been willing to tempt fate. Until now.

“God, you have no idea how much I want you,” John proclaims and kisses Sherlock deeply. Both men are panting and gasping, hands roaming free.

“On the contrary, I believe I know exactly how much,” he sucks on John’s lower lip and pulls him close. John uses the opportunity to shove him down and climb onto his body. He kisses Sherlock messily until the man breaks away and pushes him up. “John, stop. Stop.”

Once John is sitting up, Sherlock sits up as well. John slides back onto Sherlock’s thighs, accommodating his body and looks at him with wide, questioning eyes. It hadn’t occurred to him that Sherlock might not be ready for this. He quickly sees he should not have assumed and his eyes fill with worry, but Sherlock allays his fears almost immediately.

“John, don’t feel you have to do anything. I expect nothing. Having you home is more than enough.”

John sighs in relief and smiles, brushing a stray curl from his flatmate’s forehead.

“I know. I want to. I’m ready to,” he slides his hand to Sherlock’s nape and gently pulls him in for a kiss. “It isn’t like when I came home before. I was so scared. Of everything. Even being close to you. I’m not scared this time. You make me feel safe, comfortable...loved,” his deep blue eyes gaze into Sherlock’s and he whispers. “Do this with me. Try this with me.”

Sherlock looks into John’s eyes with trepidation, searching them. He must make sure John has no doubts, no hesitation. He will not take advantage of him in any way. He looks hard and finally sighs, seeing only sincerity and desire. Sherlock cups John’s face with both hands and kisses him thoroughly. His head spinning, John can suddenly think of nothing but getting every remaining piece of clothing off of their bodies.

“Oh, god,” a skillful tongue slips between his lips to lick and tease, and flick back out again. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Sherlock chuckles in a low, throaty voice and pulls John’s hips to his belly while thrusting his own hips upward. The position grants perfect access to John’s delicious bum, now firmly against Sherlock’s hardened cock.

“Oh, shit.”

Their eyes meet. John slowly rocks and kisses those soft, full lips once more before climbing off of Sherlock and dropping his own pajama bottoms. His cock bobs free as his pants go down with them. Staring at John with dark eyes, Sherlock yanks his pajamas and pants off as well. John smiles wickedly and grabs a tube of lubricant from a drawer in the side table before climbing back onto his lover. He drops it on the sheets as soon as he’s between Sherlock’s legs and takes him in his mouth without preamble. Sherlock’s head falls back in surprise, mouth open in ecstasy.

“Oh, GOD!’

John bobs his head, sucking and licking, teasing and devouring. He draws off and flattens his tongue against Sherlock’s cock, licking a slow stripe up from root to tip. Sherlock moans loudly and he leaks precome.

“Oh, fuck, John. You are a menace.”

John smiles, glancing up at Sherlock and licking the wet bead from the tip of that long erection he loves so much. Sherlock inhales sharply and shudders. His confidence bolstered by his lover’s response, John licks again slowly and slides his lips around its head tightly. Sherlock gasps when John pulls his mouth over the rim and back down. Pulling off again, John pauses a moment and closes his eyes, taking stock of the odd sensation suddenly in his belly. Is it fear or disgust? Is the nightmare he lived with Jim forcing its way to the front of his mind? 

To his surprise, the answers are a resounding no. He can scarcely believe it. Instead of thrusting him back into a world of desperation and horror, being with Sherlock this way feels relaxing. As much as he wanted this, John did have an inkling of concern that it would backfire. By god, is he happy it didn’t. He inhales deeply the unmistakable scent of the man beneath him and feels complete. Content. And anxious to continue. To have him in his mouth. All of him.

The corners of his mouth quirk up in a smile and he opens his eyes, ready to descend upon Sherlock, only to feel gentle hands on his shoulders urging him upright. Sherlock’s voice comes out breathless and concerned.

“Are you okay?”

“Absolutely,” John says steadily. He takes Sherlock in his mouth again. The man cries out in surprise and clutches at the sheets with both hands. John sucks hard, taking breaks for nipping, licking, teasing - all the things he has dreamt of doing to this man for weeks. Long, slender fingers ruffle his hair and tighten around his head for a second before letting go again. He continues with enthusiasm, too excited to slow his pace. He should stop. He knows he should stop. Sherlock is harder than he has ever been and John can tell he’s close. God, he wants him to come! All over his face and in his mouth, but Sherlock coming this way is not what John had in mind when he began.

With a growl, John makes the next pull his last and separates himself from Sherlock’s flushed and leaking prick. He hears a sound of protest in that low baritone and smiles as he quickly opens the lubricant and squirts some on his fingers. Cocking a brow and grinning mischievously, John touches Sherlock’s hole and presses a finger in. Sherlock gasps, bracing his arms and feet against the bed, his whole body tensing and shaking with pleasure.

“John...god..you don’t have to….yes, oh god,” the normally very articulate detective’s words are broken. John breathes heavily, panting, finding it just as difficult to speak.

“Want to. God, I want to.”

He slides another finger in and curls them to massage every surface of muscle within. He soon adds another finger and almost immediately caresses one of Sherlock’s most sensitive places. His hips buck involuntarily and he shouts John’s name. John smiles devilishly and begins moving a finger over Sherlock’s prostate again, but stops when he feels a firm hand on his arm. When their eyes meet, Sherlock wears a very serious expression.

“Don’t. Do that. Again.”

“Shit,” John’s smile disappears into worry. He knows he hasn’t done anything even remotely like this for a long time, but didn’t think he would be that out of practice. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Sherlock answers in a steady voice. “But it’s been a long time, John. I’m not going to last.”

A wide smile spreads across John’s face. He withdraws his fingers, grabs the lube, and squirts some on his now throbbing erection. Latching his hands under Sherlock’s legs just above the knee, he hoists up the lower half of his body to align their hips.

“John, wait.”

He raises his eyes to the gorgeous sight of Sherlock before him - naked, his legs open, cheeks pinking, the color spreading down his neck to his chest. John’s mouth literally waters.

“It isn’t too soon? Are you sure you want this?”

John’s words are absolute.

“God, yes.”

With their eyes locked on one another, John slowly pushes into Sherlock. The detective’s mouth falls open with the intensity of carnal sensation. He tightens nearly every muscle in his body in an attempt to keep his hips from bucking wildly. John starts slowly, but is soon thrusting hard and fast. Sherlock closes his eyes and bites his lower lip. He clutches at the sheets once again and tries his best to prevent it from ending all too quickly. John isn’t faring much better. Unable to slow his pace, he tries to name all the bones in the body in his head as a distraction, but a soft sound of pure pleasure from Sherlock’s lips prompts him to look down just as Sherlock looks up. His silver irises have given way to the pupils, his eyes black as night. And John doesn’t think of Jim’s vicious black eyes for even a second when he sees them. Seeing those eyes, Sherlock’s eyes - his desperation, his honest emotions - all for John, hurdles the doctor right over the edge.

He thrusts one last time as he comes hard into Sherlock, who simultaneously spills onto his own body. They both thrust at each other, shallow and convulsive, riding out their mutual orgasm. Sherlock whispers John’s name every few seconds and strokes at any place he can reach.

Feeling his body turning to jelly as he comes down, Sherlock nudges John’s hip with his leg and gives a little nod when John meets his eyes. Breathing heavily, he eases Sherlock’s hips down onto the mattress and then releases his legs. Sherlock can tell that both of John’s shoulders ache from holding him for so long and helps him lie down. John grabs a blanket and efficiently cleans them both before casting it aside and resting his blonde head on the hairless skin of Sherlock’s chest. Both lie still for a bit, just breathing and basking in the tingling pleasure pulsing through their bodies. Tears prick at the corners of John’s eyes and he wipes at them quickly before Sherlock can see. He lets out a little puff of air and curses to take his mind off his own mood.

“Fuck me, that was amazing.” Because it was and John can’t even find the words to tell Sherlock how happy he is or how deeply loved he feels in this moment.

“I see your foul mouth has not improved.”

“Are you saying you want it to?” John giggles. Sherlock smiles at John and strokes his soft hair.

“Not on your life.”

John throws his head back with a deep belly laugh and Sherlock feels himself melting, his heart melting. It is truly the most glorious sight to behold and one he thought he might never see again, even after John’s return. He blinks back tears that threaten to roll from his own eyes and inhales deeply to settle himself. As he watches John and begins to laugh along with him, his thoughts take him to a room in his mind palace. It is a room he has not visited for some time. A room in which he and John are together in a garden, beneath a trellis in the sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! She's back!! And she wants to be John's friend. She's moving to London and did anyone catch the part where she was going to put the moves on him as they sat on the sofa together?? Villainess! 
> 
> Or maybe she just feels she and John share something special after their time on the island. And her motivation is perfectly innocent. Yes, that's it. After all, John's a wonderful person and everyone would be happy to spend time with him. Sherlock's right about that. Oh, but Sherlock was jealous before and now Mary is in their midst. And he's already so suspicious of her. "As far as he's concerned, this woman is a case." Anybody notice how he refers to her as "The Woman" now? Hmmmmm.
> 
> Also, I LOVE this sex scene. :D
> 
> Thank you for your undying support! I hope you're still all out there reading and loving it. I've been missing some of my old friends, but I know you'll be back commenting again soon. And for anyone who hasn't shared, but has thought about it, your thoughts are welcome. I love all the stuff people come up with. Quite often, deeper meanings and events or dialogue I hadn't even realized were so pivotal are pointed out to me. I love it!
> 
> Anyway, thank you all again and forever. I love ya.  
> Always, Jane


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Everyone! I'm so sorry for the delay in releasing this chapter. It wasn't originally in the manuscript, but I felt it had to be added. Between being stupid busy and ending up in the ER again (eye roll), it took a while to write and edit AND the first section nearly killed me. God! I love this chapter though and hope all of you agree that it was worth the wait. I'm hoping to get back to my usual posting frequency now. Oh, and no spoilers. Heh heh.  
> Happy reading!

Two months have passed since since Mary Morstan moved to London and Sherlock Holmes is being driven half crazy. She has seemingly gone out of her way to insert herself into nearly every aspect of their lives. Though she does not live nearby, she accepted a position attending to a city park and grounds very close to the surgery where John practices medicine. Consequently, John meets her every day for lunch. Like on the island, only more often. When he and Sherlock do not have plans or a case, John often accepts her invitations for drinks after work. Sherlock didn’t notice at first because John often came home an hour or so after his shift had ended, having gone to Tesco or some such. When it started becoming later and happening three work nights per week, Sherlock took notice.

He did not say anything as such and did not want to engage in any juvenile passive-aggressive nonsense either. John had obviously developed a strong friendship with Mary while on the island and that was understandable. More than understandable, considering the circumstances. John was trapped on the island suffering Moriarty’s abuse for 47 days with Mary as his only escape, his only source of relief. Sherlock cannot ask him to give that up, but he is beginning to feel neglected. Honestly, the detective doesn’t know what to do. He has never been in a serious relationship before and has certainly never felt this level of affection for anyone. What is acceptable in this situation? He would normally ask John, his moral compass, but he can’t ask him about this.

Already stuck in a difficult position with no clue what to do or say, Sherlock was at a complete loss one Saturday evening when John asked if he minded much if John met up with Mary for dinner. They didn’t have a case on and they had just spent all of the previous night together. Sherlock felt he couldn’t say no, much as he wanted to. He told John that was fine, refused when John suggested he come along, and assured him he had an experiment to work on. Had that been the wrong thing to do? After all, Sherlock didn’t want to spend time with the woman, but he immediately felt stupid for not going because he was already so jealous of how much time they spent together and he still didn’t trust Mary as far as he could throw her. He ought to tag along every chance he had to make sure she wasn’t trying to use John in some way, but John would see through that in a second.

After John left the flat that night, Sherlock nearly cried. He knew he was being overdramatic, but he had an immediate feeling of loss and loneliness. It was like they were going on a date. Of course they weren’t. He couldn’t believe John would ever cheat on him and, even if that was John’s intention, he would hardly check with Sherlock first to see if it was okay to go on a date. God, it was frustrating and Sherlock felt so sad as he sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought. Was he losing John to Mary? Was John progressively growing more fond of her and less of him?

What made Sherlock’s chest clamp tightly and painfully, and crushed at his very heart, was when certain changes to their sexlife suddenly came to mind. Sherlock had been very surprised when John was able to be intimate so soon after his rescue, considering all Moriarty had done to him. John had been shocked as well. He insisted it was because Sherlock made him feel so safe and loved. John was so happy to be home and comfortable in Sherlock’s presence that the detective believed him, in spite of a few very annoying conversations with Mycroft on the subject of John’s possibly being brainwashed. Sherlock had shot back that Mycroft had already had his time with John and he had passed through the interrogation with flying colors. Mycroft announced that he was no longer convinced. Many things about John and his behavior did not add up.

Naturally, Sherlock told his brother to fuck off each time the conversation took place, but now even he was beginning to have his doubts. While the continuance of their sexlife was fantastic in many ways and confusing in others, it was shattering when Sherlock put more thought into why John truly might lack the ability to bottom. In the two months they had engaged in intercourse, John had not once been able to bottom. It was completely understandable and Sherlock could certainly empathize when they first spoke of it. Moriarty had always forced himself on John, very violently at times. It was a wonder John was never injured internally. 

Sitting at the kitchen table that night, Sherlock was struck by the thought that perhaps it was no longer because of painful memories, but more that he no longer  **wanted** to do it. Was the experience of his captivity so traumatic that John would never be able to have that kind of penetrative sex again? Did he no longer desire it at all? Had being so brutalized by a man caused the more hetero side of his bisexuality to surface? Would he rather be with Mary Morstan now? And, if so, why couldn’t he just be honest with Sherlock and tell him he would rather be with a woman again? 

The detective’s heart was broken the moment he asked himself those questions and he did cry right there at the kitchen table. When John returned around nine o’clock, Sherlock still hadn’t fully stopped and tried to hide his despair from John by grumpily asserting that his experiment had not gone well and that he was very tired. 

Tears slip from his eyes again as he lies down on the bed. With his eyes closed, Sherlock weeps silently, only trying to pull himself together when he hears John emerge from the en suite, ready for bed. Sherlock keeps his back turned firmly toward John as he climbs in next to him. Being that it is still so early for them, John doesn’t think Sherlock will mind having a quiet chat before actually retiring. 

“So the experiment didn’t pan out then?” his voice drifts through the darkness. Sherlock licks his lips and tries to make his voice steady.

“No. Not at all.”

“Did it have anything to do with those fingers in the fridge?”

“No.”

“Damn. I was hoping you’d used them all up so I wouldn’t have to shift around them to get the pea salad anymore,” he answers with a short chuckle. His attempt at levity. Sherlock bites his lip and doesn’t respond. He clenches his eyes shut, a tear seeping from beneath each one. The bed dips when John turns on his side to face his detective. Sherlock can feel his deep blue eyes focused on his back, no doubt brimming with worry, and finds himself caught between the sudden desire to tell John everything and to never say a word.

“Sherlock,” John says quietly. “What’s wrong?”

The detective doesn’t move. He doesn’t make a sound. As if hoping he can fool John into thinking he is asleep and that talking is useless. Then John’s hand gently touches his shoulder. Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin, gasping a bit desperately, but it sounds something more like a sob. John’s voice becomes more urgent, laced with deep concern.

“Sherlock, what is it? What’s wrong? Have I done something?”

“No,” he chokes, trying not to let his voice shake as much as it wants to. “I’m fine. Really. Just tired.”

“That is the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard come from your mouth,” is John’s hushed reply and Sherlock can’t help but smile at his bluntness, even in his own melancholy. That sassy attitude is one of the many things that attracted him from the very beginning. John gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Sherlock,” he pauses to sigh. “I should have stayed home. I should have seen how upset you were.”

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t upset when you left. I…” Sherlock struggles for the words. He is so confused. He has no idea what he should tell John. What’s okay and what isn’t? Is it okay to feel the way he does or is he blowing things out of proportion?

“Sherlock, please look at me.”

He closes his eyes in regret, a tear slipping from one. He can’t avoid it. John would never let him and, indeed, he wouldn’t let John either if their roles were reversed. Sherlock inhales deeply and covertly wipes away the tear as he rolls over to face John. His doctor’s eyes widen in shock the moment his face is in view. John knows immediately that Sherlock has been crying, quite easily in fact. The puffy redness of his eyes, the telltale marks left on his cheeks from smearing away his tears, and the way his breath stuttered uncontrollably as he settled in front of John have laid all of his feelings bare.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the words burst form Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop them. John’s eyes fill with worry as his detective continues. “I’m being so stupid. I don’t know what to do and I can’t think. The pieces don’t fit together and I find myself in doubt of everything.”

“Doubting what? What pieces?”

“Everything! Us!” Sherlock declares loudly, uncontrollably. His sorrow plain in his voice and a sob slipping past his lips. John’s expression is full of fear and concern. He takes Sherlock’s hands in his own quickly, holding them tightly. 

“Us? Why?”

“You!” Sherlock stops himself abruptly. Could he even say this? Is it even fair to John? Are his feelings justified or is he a complete idiot? Looking at John’s face, he knows there’s no way out now. Right or wrong, it has to be said. “I know how this is going to sound, John. Believe me, I know. I just…” his voice catches in his throat. John’s thumbs stroke the backs of his hands gently and he looks into Sherlock’s watery silver eyes intensely.

“Please tell me. Please,” he whispers, his voice full of concern. “You can tell me anything. Especially if it’s this painful. God, Sherlock, if I’m causing it, I want to know. Please. I have to make it right. I love you.” 

A single tear falls from one eye and then the other as Sherlock tries to find the words. John lifts one hand and brushes a tear from Sherlock’s cheek, his expression worried and his voice imploring.

“Please, Sherlock.”

“You could be...intimate so soon after your rescue,” he swallows hard, struggling to begin. “It didn’t make any sense then and I still can’t make sense of it now. I know you don’t understand it either. I know. Everyone who experiences sexual trauma reacts differently, heals differently. There’s no right or wrong way. No one way that fits every person and every situation, but…”

Sherlock pauses, not wanting to say the next words, scared out of his mind that John will be angry and it will all blow up in his face. What if he drives him right to Mary’s door with this? Right to her bed? His brow wrinkles in pain at the thought and more tears drip freely from his eyes. He does nothing to stop them.

“John, if there is even the slightest chance Moriarty could have tricked you.”

“Sherlock.”

“Or hypnotized you.”

“Hypnotized?!” John nearly shouts. “Sherlock, are you even listening to yourself? You don’t put any stock into that shit. You never have!” He looks into his detective’s eyes with such emotion, such sincerity that Sherlock hates himself for even burdening John with this. “I would never turn on you, Sherlock. Never. You are my life. My, my…. You say I’m your conscience, your moral compass. You are the same for me. You make me a better person. I never loved anyone until I met you. I was never complete until I met you.”

“But you won’t…” Sherlock clamps his mouth shut around the words and tries to gather himself. John doesn’t have to utter a word to ask him not to stop there. Not to leave him hanging in the horror of what he started to say. Sherlock inhales deeply and meets John’s eyes, even as more tears trail down his cheeks. “You are more than willing to be intimate with me. You will...top…”

“But I won’t bottom,” John finishes. Sherlock bites his lip as he watches everything click into place in John’s mind. A breath stutters from his mouth and another few tears trickle down as Sherlock looks away, trying to think of how to explain himself. He takes in a shuddering breath, unable to stop himself from crying outright.

“I’m sorry. I just… I know you still suffer emotionally and I have no right to ask anything of you that you aren’t comfortable with. I would never do that to you, but… You spend so much time with her.”

“Who? Mary?” confusion in his voice and worry dominating his features, John tries to understand. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“You were there together. And you spend so much time together now. She understands you. She knows!” Sherlock touches John’s hand, desperate for his touch. “Was what Moriarty did so painful, so terrifying that you would rather return to intercourse with women? So you never have to be in that position again?”

“What? No. No,” John’s voice is breathy and full of dismay. He turns his hand over to take Sherlock’s in his own again tightly. “I want to be with you. I love you, Sherlock, more than anything. I’m… The truth is I’m afraid. I’ve thought of you topping. I’ve wanted it. But I’m so fucking scared that I’ll break as soon as we try and I’ll be back to square one. Nightmares and flashbacks, hitting you and choking you. I don’t want to hurt you, Sherlock. Not ever again.” He pauses sadly and reaches to touch Sherlock’s face. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you all of this weeks ago. I knew you would realize something was off, but I didn’t know what to say.”

“Could you tell her?” he snaps. He knows it’s a low blow and an unreasonable question, but Sherlock couldn’t help himself. His jealousy of Mary feels all-consuming, threatening to conquer all rational thought.

“No,” John replies, shocking Sherlock. He meets his eyes. They are startled and full of unabashed honesty. “I would never talk about our sexlife with Mary. It’s none of her business.”

“But you seem so close. You talk all the time. You talk to Lestrade about it.”

“Greg and I have been friends for years. I haven’t know Mary long enough for that,” John continues.

“What do you talk about?”

“I don’t know,” John struggles to recall any specifics. “Work, life, you. Sometimes the island.”

“Me?”

“You’re my flatmate, Sherlock, the love of my life. Of course we talk about you.”

Sherlock gazes into John’s eyes curiously. He wants so desperately to press harder, to ask John what they said, what she said about him, what she wanted to know about John, but this is not the time. This conversation is far more important than that. It is about them and their relationship. About loving each other and working together to regain what they lost. About working through the hurt both of them feel. To speak any more of Mary Morstan, no matter how Sherlock loathed her and wanted to realize her schemes, would be a discourtesy to both John and himself, and all they had already worked for.

“John, I want us to be the way we were before,” Sherlock begins, sounding a bit hopeless, ”but maybe I have to accept that it will never be.”

“You don’t have to,” John shakes his head. “I want that too. I’ve been too scared to try,” he pauses to wet his lips. “We can try. I want to try.”

“You do?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Yes,” John nods, tears pricking at the corners of his own eyes. “Will you...try with me? Stay with me?”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide as the true meaning of John’s words wash over him. John’s real fear at this moment is that Sherlock wants to leave him, to break it off. The whole time Sherlock had been speaking, John thought the end result was going to be the end of their relationship. He was so frightened by Sherlock’s anguish, not just concerned or confused, but frightened and trying to hold himself together as they spoke. In his own despair, Sherlock hadn’t noticed it.

A small smile of relief pulls at his lips and he cups John’s face with his own large hands, finding them wet with tears. He looks into those deep blue pools, moist with tears and full of emotion.

“I would never leave you. I love you,” Sherlock leans in slowly and gently, carefully pressing a kiss to John’s lips. “Separating from you was never my intention. I had so many questions and never voiced them. Allowed them to fester, as you say. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve done the same thing,” John replies. “I still feel like I have to be brave, a soldier. It’s not always easy for me to talk about my feelings, but I will tell you from now on. We made a promise to be open and honest, and I lost sight of that to my own insecurities. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want you to think I would ever equate you or anything we do together with Moriarty. It seems like we always mean well and just hurt each other anyway.”

“It’s because we’re idiots,” Sherlock blurts and John can’t help but laugh. The detective quickly follows suit, a broad smile on his face, drawing John into his arms. “Let’s try not to be so foolish in the future.”

“I like the sound of that,” John smiles and kisses Sherlock’s cheek. The two men spend hours talking afterward. They aren’t tired enough to finally fall asleep until long past 2am. The two men confess so many things to one another and share so many feelings. It is truly one of the most open and fulfilling nights since their relationship began. Sherlock does not broach the topic of Mary Morstan, however, still feeling the time is not right. Perhaps in a few days... He pledged to find out what Mary is up to and he will not stop until he knows ALL of her motives.

***

Two weeks after that night in their bedroom and John has gone out with Mary much less often. Sherlock is certain that she has asked him out after work nearly every night and John has only accepted once. Instead, he has come home and greeted Sherlock with a warm embrace. Sometimes he brings takeaway, but most of the time they cook dinner together. Although Sherlock never made food before John moved in and seldom ate, he finds himself stopping any and all activities to join John as he prepares their meal. He enjoys it thoroughly. Their close proximity in the kitchen as they slide by one another’s bodies, sometimes unable to avoid rubbing up against each other just a little. They kiss and nip at lips and ears when they are close enough, giggling and telling jokes.

After eating and finishing the washing up, they have spent each night together in the sitting room. Some nights they do their own things, talking every so often and sharing stories from the day. Other times they have snuggled up on the sofa to watch a movie or crap telly. Sometimes John reads to Sherlock. They have started the first Harry Potter book and both are surprisingly intrigued. Sometimes they don’t do anything. They just sit in one another’s arms and talk. About everything. And nothing. They have ended every night in bed. Snuggling and talking until they fall asleep about half the time, and sex the other half. John has still not bottomed and Sherlock is not about to push him into it. He feels much better about the situation since they spoke, and is convinced that Mycroft is wrong and John has not been influenced by Moriarty in any way. At least, not in a way that would actually put him in Moriarty’s corner. John has definitely been affected by the bastard and his torture, but has not joined forces with him as Mycroft suspects.

As John and Sherlock have grown ever closer in the last fourteen days, Mary has tried not even terribly creative ways to separate them. At least, not to Sherlock’s way of thinking. She appeared at the flat four days ago on Sunday and spent the entire day at their home, laughing with John and glaring at Sherlock whenever John wasn’t looking. Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk every time. The three of them went for a short walk in the park and out to dinner at a nearby pub, at Mary’s suggestion. Dinner made perfect sense, but Sherlock also went on the walk because he wasn’t about to leave John alone with her. 

Mary is so fucking jealous, it is unbelievable. She hides it well from John. If he has noticed, John has never let on or spoken to Sherlock about it afterwards. Sherlock had been avoiding Mycroft, due to his insistence that John may have ties to Moriarty that could prove dangerous for Sherlock. However, he went to see his brother bright and early on Monday morning after the Sunday spent with Mary. He demanded Mycroft drop his suspicions pertaining to John and continue trying to find more information on Mary instead. The detective had learned that John asked Mycroft to look into her past while she was missing from the island but had not yet appeared at Baker Street. 

That Monday morning in his office, just three days ago, Mycroft informed him that he ceased the investigation upon hearing of Mary’s visit. Sherlock spent the next two hours  _ persuading _ him to start again. Sherlock also read through the file he had collected twice. The very file Mycroft had offered to John and he refused. What Mycroft told John about Mary’s life was true. It was intensely dull, but Sherlock could not believe any of it was true and berated his brother for being so stupid. There was no way someone as bright and clever as Mary Morstan grew up in a boring suburb, attended a boring university, and became a boring gardener who switched from job to job every two to three years, somehow ending with Moriarty.  

“Her words last night were chilling,” Sherlock confided in a rare moment of vulnerability. Feeling his brother’s uneasiness, Mycroft sobered and watched him carefully.

“What did she say?”

“ ‘Where were you on that island? While I was helping John, saving his life, you were too busy solving every other case but the most important.’ “ Sherlock whispered sinisterly, no doubt in much the same way it had passed from Mary’s lips. Mycroft cocked a brow, wearing a deeply concerned expression. “ ‘You don’t love him.’ “

“I will resume the investigation, Sherlock,” Mycroft said in a low voice. “My apologies.”

That was three days ago and, while Mycroft has given Sherlock reports containing much more useful information than was in the original file, it is still nothing he can use to pinpoint who Mary Morstan truly is or how she found her way onto Moriarty’s island. Why is she so bloody interested in John? It’s true that he is very attractive and pleasant to be around. Sherlock cannot fault anyone for wanting to be with John, but is her attraction to him purely sexual, as it seems, or does she have other motives? 

Sherlock has still said nothing to John about his suspicions. With no real evidence, it would merely sound like petulance or jealousy. In light of that, Sherlock did not try to stop John when he told him Mary had asked him out for dinner. He could tell John wanted to go, so he agreed and bid John farewell with a tender, but heated kiss. After John was gone, he briefly considered following John and watching...eavesdropping. Sherlock has a very strong feeling that Mary is going to try something, if not tonight then soon. Her fury just a few days ago was not imagined. She wants to spend more time with John again. She wants John.

***

“Hi,” Mary bubbles as John joins her table at Angelo’s.

“Hey,” he replies, shrugging out of his coat. “How are you?”

“Good. Good. You? I haven’t seen you as much lately,” her eyes pass over his features carefully. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” John settles back in his seat. “I’ve been busy the last couple weeks.”

“Hm,” she hums, picking up her water glass and sipping. At that moment, their waiter arrives with a bottle of red wine. His name is Peter and he greets John warmly. Everyone at Angelo’s knows him and Sherlock well. He quickly explains the specials and takes their order. Mary grins bashfully as soon as he is gone. “I took the liberty of ordering the wine.”

“Obviously,” John smiles, reaching for his glass. Mary grabs her own abruptly and holds it aloft.

“A toast?"

“Oh, sure. Of course,” John says good-naturedly and holds his glass a few inches from hers. Mary licks her lips, looking perhaps a shade nervous.

“To new beginnings.”

“Cheers,” John adds, furrowing his brows a bit in confusion. Mary clicks her glass against his and they both take a drink. She smiles and replaces her glass on the table while John holds his in both hands, his elbows on the table. He looks across at her curiously. “New beginnings? Are you starting a new job? Switching to a different park maybe?”

“No,” Mary laughs easily. “Why would I do that? We wouldn’t be able to meet for lunch if I did that.”

“True, true,” John glances at the table as he sets down his glass. “What’s this new beginning then?”

“Well, I guess I was hoping we could start spending more time together again,” she says hesitantly, biting her lip nervously. She looks up at John flirtatiously. “I mean, I’d like to see you more again. I’ve...missed you...if I’m honest.”

John doesn’t answer. He just watches her for a moment before looking down at the table again and retrieving his wine. He meets her eyes as he takes another sip. The corners of his mouth curl upward ever so slightly in a way that could be pleased or confused. Before he has the chance to say anything, Peter returns with their salads and breadsticks They dig in as soon as he has left again.

“I was a little surprised you wanted to come here,” John clears his throat. “Sherlock and I eat here a lot.”

“Do you?” she asks innocently, fluttering her eyes for just a second. “I love this place. It’s so romantic.”

“Yes, it is,” John meets her eyes. “That’s why we come here.”

Mary’s smile fades and she chews a spinach leaf. John peers at her suspiciously, trying to observe all of her tells, using every skill Sherlock has ever taught him. He purses his lips, his fork hovering over his plate.

“What’s going on, Mary?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she shakes her head. “I’ve missed you. It’s just so good to see you tonight.”

“Yes, but…”

“John, I care about you. You know that. We shared a lot on that island,” she pauses, “and a lot since then too. You’re my closest friend and I… I just wanted to see you.”

“But in a romantic restaurant?” John persists. ”Where Sherlock and I had our first date?”

“You had your first date here?” her eyes widen in shock. John huffs a disbelieving breath, his lips turning up this time more in anger than amusement. He shakes his head and leans forward ever so slightly.

“We did, and I don’t know how you know, but you clearly went to a lot of trouble to find out because Sherlock would never tell you that,” he says with a note of tension in his voice. “Mary, what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she defends. His expression doesn’t change. “I just wanted to make it special.”

“It  **is** special, Mary. For me and Sherlock.”

A quiet hiss escapes from her lips as she puts down her fork and goes for her wine. She takes a decent-sized swallow and looks at John with a sour expression. All pretences have dropped when she continues speaking.

“Sherlock,” she mutters dismissively. This time John’s eyes widen and his spine straightens, completely taken aback by her demeanor. He has always known that Mary doesn’t like Sherlock, but she has never been openly negative or hostile. She eyes him grimly. “I don’t know why you waste your time with him, John. I really don’t.”

“What?” John begins, but she interrupts quickly, speaking in a firm voice.

“He grates on me. The way he speaks to you, it’s insulting. He doesn’t respect you, John,” she grumbles. “Your opinion and experience. He doesn’t even listen to you!”

“He wouldn’t ask for my input if he didn’t want it,” John’s voice is stern and he doesn’t takes his eyes off of her. “It’s valuable to him and he uses it as he needs.”

“John,” Mary almost whines, “he does not. He unequivocally ignores it.”

John puts down his fork and rests his forearms on the table so he can lean forward farther and look at Mary pointedly. His voice is low and very serious, his deep blue eyes charged with anger.

“Look, you don’t know Sherlock. You don’t know how he thinks. He gets all the information he can and then he sorts through it. Some of it is useful and some isn’t. Some is emparitive and he makes that determination himself,” John pauses, but continues before she can open her mouth. “Just because he doesn’t always bother with decorum and his methods don’t meet with your approval does not mean you have any business judging our relationship.”

“Oh, John! Really?” Mary looks at him in disbelief. “He  **never** bothers with decorum. He asks for your opinion and shuts you down as soon as you give it. IF he even lets you finish!”

“Mary,” John warns, but she presses on.

“He uses you, John,” her eyes sparkle with hate. “He uses you to make himself look good and  **that’s** why he keeps you around. He doesn’t love you. He never has.”

“You don’t know that,” John glares. “You don’t know the first thing about him.”

“I know he couldn’t seem to find you on the island until I told him right where it was, so he couldn’t pretend anymore!” she snarls quietly. “What was he doing all that time, John? Hm?! Solving other crimes, saving his smug brother. Maybe he wanted you on that island, so you could gather more information for him about Moriarty.”

“ **That** is bullshit and you know it,” John growls in a deep voice.

“I know you believe that, John,” Mary says sympathetically, pain in her eyes, “but I don’t. Everything I have seen makes me think he was using you, that he’s always used you. Your pain and suffering were acceptable losses in the arrangement. They always have been.”

Fury burns through John’s veins at her accusations, but is also mixed with such confusion. What the fuck is Mary on about?! Why is she saying these things and how long has she believed this of Sherlock? She didn’t seem to like him from the beginning, not that he was all that fond of her either. Had she always suspected that Sherlock’s motives were so dishonest? And how can John convince her otherwise? Should he even give a damn about convincing her otherwise?

“John,” Mary’s hand is suddenly resting on his gently, “he’s done it before. If you think about it, you’ll see it’s the truth. He experimented on you at Baskerville. He left you without a word when the cabbie picked him up. You weren’t worthy of knowing his plans in either of those cases.”

“What?” John is startled and utterly speechless. “Why would you…”

“His arrogance nearly got you killed at that circus performance,” she continues. “Even at the pool…”

“No!” John whispers in rage. He yanks his hand away from her and nearly leaps up from the table, but stops short and remains seated when Peter suddenly appears with their entrees. The poor man is too polite and ignorant of the circumstances for John to storm from the table as he wants to, so he stays. Peter collects the salad plates and leaves them to their dinner. Mary stares across the table at John sadly. He meets her eyes with his own furious ones.

“I’m sorry, John. I truly am,” she says quietly and contritely. “That’s how I see it. That’s how I’ve always seen it. I thought over all this time you were starting to get it, but then you turned back to him. He makes you see what he wants you to.” She pauses and bites her lip, continuing reluctantly. “Sex is a powerful motivator, John. It’s easy for some people to use it to their advantage.”

“No,” John is shaking his head vehemently. “No, he wouldn’t. He would never…”

“Ask yourself this. Has he ever had any long-term relationships before?” Mary tilts her head in understanding when she catches the glint in his eye. “Why do you suppose that is? He needed something from those relationships and he was out the door when he got it. Oh, John, don’t you see?” her voice is almost desperate now. “Everything about your friendship and your romantic relationship has been about him and what he can get from you. I’m sorry to tell you like this. I know how much he means to you, but I honestly don’t think you mean the same to him.” 

John stares at her, his expression blank. His brain can’t quite process what she’s saying, doesn’t even want to try. Nothing about what she has said makes sense and yet, somehow pieces of it do. Sherlock is definitely not above manipulating and using people to get what he needs, whether it is information for a case or using Molly’s lab equipment or Mycroft’s resources. How hard is it to believe that he would use John too? But to this extent? To let John start them down the path to a real relationship and pretend to be in love with him...No.

“No,” John says suddenly.

“What?” Mary asks around a piece of shrimp. He looks up from his plate of tortellini alfredo with a determined look in his eyes. Worry flashes across Mary’s face and she leans forward. “John?”

“You’re wrong,” John shakes his head. Her head tilts again in sadness and she rests her fork on her plate, reaching for John. He lets her touch his hand lightly and looks into her eyes, full of empathy. “You don’t know him, Mary. You’ve only been here a couple of months and have spent none of that time with him.”

“But John, all the things he’s done…” she begins emphatically. “You told me yourself.”

“And they’re all true, yes, but it’s different now.”

“Different?” Mary lets out a quiet and angry laugh. “What makes you so different, John? He would use you just as easily as a stranger.”

“Because he  **loves** me.”

Mary’s mouth shuts with a click and John can tell she doesn’t believe him. He takes a deep breath and looks down at the table again, his eyes roaming over the food and glasses. He sees her hand still resting on his and just stops to think for a moment. When he raises his eyes again, he shakes his head and presses his tongue against his teeth in thought.

“I need to go,” is all he says to her and motions Peter over while Mary watches in shocked disbelief.

“John.”

“I’m sorry, Peter, but could you wrap this up for me? Something’s just come up,” he ignores Mary and explains to their suddenly very nervous waiter. 

“I’m so sorry, John. Is there something wrong with your dinner? I can have chef make another.”

“No, no, it’s fine, Peter. Really, it’s fine. I just have some business to attend to is all.”

“Oh!” Peter almost gasps. “A case? An emergency? Yes! Yes, I’ll bring it right back for you.”

“And mine too, please,” Mary adds quickly. Peter nods and picks up her plate as well.

As they walk out of the restaurant together and John scans for a cab, he can’t help but be glad Angelo wasn’t working tonight. He would have worried far more than Peter did and would not have so easily bought the story John fed him. Granted, he and Sherlock often ended up running out of places after only just entering or ordering food, but Angelo surely would have noticed the tension on John’s face and the anger in his eyes.

John sighs in frustration, looking up and down the street.

“Where the hell are all the cabs?” he mutters under his breath. He turns his head sharply when there is a tug on his coat sleeve. Mary is looking at him, concern written all over her face. Her hand is still holding onto his arm, the other clutching her to go bag. She looks as though she has been thoroughly chastised, but for something she didn’t believe was wrong. 

“I’m sorry I upset you, John, but I had to tell you how I feel. You know me well enough to know I have to speak my mind,” she sighs. “I just don’t see the same things in Sherlock that you do.”

“I can respect that,” John answers quietly, “but it’s my decision and I need you to respect that. I told you on that island that Sherlock can be a mad bastard, but he’s also brilliant and very vulnerable and caring. We bring out the best in each other.”

“If you say so.”

“No. Mary,” John gives her a very serious look, searching her eyes, “I won’t have you whispering curses in my ear. I love him and hope to god he’ll be my husband one day. I’m not asking you to like him, but I need you to accept that it’s what I want and that it’s my choice to make.”

She watches him in silence, considering everything he has said carefully. A quiet rumble of thunder reverberates overhead and a light rain begins to fall over the city, covering John and Mary and everything around them in a thin layer of water and blurriness. John’s eyes are fierce, but still friendly, emploring. Maybe she hasn’t played her hand too quickly after all. She isn’t finished yet. Mary nods slowly. 

“Okay,” her voice is soft and resigned. “You’re my friend, John, and I will do anything for you. If Sherlock Holmes is what you want, I will stand by and be happy with you.”

“Thank you,” John smiles. At moment, as if by magic, a cab stops right next to them. John glances back at her with his hand on the door handle. “Share a cab?”

“Sure,” she grins back, feeling more at ease again. They climb in and the car sets off. Baker Street first, since they are closer, and then to Mary’s flat. The two friends sit quietly throughout the ride, looking out the windows as the rain begins to fall harder. When the cab rolls to a stop in front of 221, John feels a warm hand on his thigh as he moves to get out.

“See you again soon?” Mary asks hopefully. 

“Sure,” John smiles. She smiles back and gives his thigh a squeeze. He opens the car door and rises out, closing the door behind. 

***

John hangs his coat by the door and saunters into the sitting room. Finding it empty, he goes to the kitchen, expecting to see the table covered with an experiment and his detective clad in those adorable safety goggles, his curls sticking out every which way. Unfortunately, and John can’t believe he’s thinking it, but the table is clear of any tubing, bunsen burners, or mold. He steps back into the hall, looking toward the loo and their bedroom.

“Sherlock?” he says more or less at normal volume. Sherlock wouldn’t have gone to sleep already and with no experiment or case on, unless Greg phoned him with one. John walks to the bedroom slowly and glances around the room, looking for any signs of life. Sherlock is clearly out of the flat. John sighs and pulls his jumper up over his head and tosses it on a nearby chair. He heads into the en suite, stripping off his plain white tee and throwing it on the floor. He isn’t usually one for making a mess, but if he has to go to sleep alone tonight, he’s not going to  bother with the laundry basket.

John considers his dinner with Mary as he cleans his teeth. He supposes it would be easy for her to misjudge the detective. After all, John himself thought he was an ass when he first met him. An incredibly intriguing and sexy ass, but an ass nonetheless. The corners of his mouth curl upward as he thinks back on that day in Molly’s lab when Mike Stamford introduced him to the great Sherlock Holmes. It was all so coincidental, so perfect. Meeting the exact man he needed to meet at the exact moment he needed him. So much like the fate Sherlock doesn’t believe in. John looks at himself in the mirror for a moment and then leans forward to spit into the sink.

When he straightens up again, wiping a hand towel over his mouth, his gaze immediately lifts to meet the silver-eyed Sherlock Holmes in the reflection. The detective wears an intense look as John glances down to place the towel on the sink. Sherlock is wearing his typical button-down and suit trousers, though his great coat and suit coat are gone, already hung somewhere or slung on a chair elsewhere in the flat. He wants to give the impression that he was here all along and that John just didn’t happen to find him. Perhaps he was upstairs in John’s old room or had been down with Mrs. Hudson, but John doesn’t buy it.

He turns around to face his flatmate, his body language that of complete nonchalance but his eyes sharp. Conversely, Sherlock’s gaze cannot help but falter as it runs over John’s mostly nude form. John stands in front of the sink wearing only a pair of tight red pants and not a stitch more. He was readying for bed, after all. When the detective meets John’s deep blue eyes again, his expression is fairly neutral but his shining silver eyes have a certain hungry look to them. John smirks inwardly. 

“You’re home earlier than I would have expected,” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbles through the small room. John steps toward him slowly, watching carefully.  

“Is that why you were out?” he asks coolly. “I thought you’d be home.”

“I went out,” the detective replies. “Tesco.”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he straightens his neck haughtily. “We needed milk.”

“So we did,” John smiles, wrapping his arms around his flatmate’s neck and pressing his body close. Sherlock’s body feels hot, like he was in a rush, but he caught his breath before appearing in the loo. John takes a moment to imagine how good Sherlock’s bare skin would feel against his own. The idea of it is delicious, but he quickly tables the thought. There is time for that later and there is something important on John’s mind just now. In spite of that, he tips his head up and catches the taller man’s lip with his in a searing ‘Welcome back. I missed you, even though we weren’t apart for all that long’ kiss.

When the kiss ends, Sherlock’s hands have migrated from the small of John’s back to cupping his perfect buttocks. He lets out a long sigh and touches his forehead to John’s. His voice hovers in the air like a contented whisper floating through a breeze.

“How was dinner?”

“Mmm..enlightening,” he replies. Sherlock moves his head back a little so he can meet John’s eyes, giving him a curious expression. John is looking at him intensely, but lets his eyes drop to Sherlock’s lips for a moment before raising them again. “Were you at Angelo’s the whole time?”

“I...what?” the detective stumbles for words. That is decidedly the last thing he expected to hear from John. Sherlock is both panicked and confused. His mind is working a mile per second, as usual, to come up with an explanation, but its rhythm has been completely thrown off by the fact that John does not seem the least bit angry that Sherlock was spying on him the entire evening.

“You could have just come with us, you know,” John adds. Sherlock purses his lips and watches his doctor warily. 

“I didn’t think Mary would speak so...freely.”

“No,” John lets out a quick laugh, “she wouldn’t have.” John pauses to search Sherlock’s eyes. “You heard it all?”

“More or less.”

“Come ‘ere,” he wiggles out of Sherlock’s arms and pulls him toward the bed by his hand. They sit together, facing one another. John still doesn’t look angry and Sherlock isn’t about to give him the chance to simmer into a boil. 

“I can explain, John,” he launches, his hands already up and ready to make supporting gestures for the onslaught of possibly, probably, shouting about to follow. John laughs easily and takes his hands in his before Sherlock can get another word out.

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“You what?” he is completely dumbfounded. If he hadn’t been watching John and Mary from the kitchen for the entire aborted meal, he would think she had replaced John with a devious imposter. He stares at his flatmate, speechless, his mind rapidly running through his options. John waits patiently with one of those ‘You’re so adorable’ looks on his face, only it’s his own special take on the expression. Somehow John always manages to make it endearing instead of condescending. Sherlock wants to kiss him, in spite of himself. “You...you’re not angry?”

“Well, I’d prefer you didn’t follow me to dinner covertly and listen in on my conversations, but no, not this time,” John answers thoughtfully. Sherlock gapes and John fixes him with a significant look. “There’s something off about Mary.”

“Isn’t that a movie?” Sherlock asks, still befuddled. A bark of laughter bursts from John’s mouth and he puts his hands on his hips.

“How do you know about that travesty and not know how many planets are in the solar system?” he blurts. “Or that the Earth orbits the sun?”

“Because those things are not important.”

“A stupid romantic comedy is not important, especially in your book.”

“You told me about it.”

John stops, his eyes locked on the tall man before him. His shoulders lower on their own accord, every bit of tension dripping from them. His deep blue eyes are wide and innocent. John looks nothing less than astonished, as though he never believed such a confession would ever come from the lips of Sherlock Holmes, least of all to him. Which, Sherlock will tell anyone, is absurd. He has never met anyone as stimulating as John Watson. Even the most mundane things are worth remembering if they came from John’s lips. Even if what he’s talking about actually is stupid, like the movie in question. 

Sherlock gives John a timid smile and the doctor blinks his eyes once deliberately, seeming to come back to himself. He crosses his arms over his chest and furrows his brow. Back to business then.

“She’s hiding something,” John bites his lip in thought. Making sure not to look smug or accusatory, Sherlock scooches a little closer. 

“You said you trusted her.”

“I did,” John meets his eyes. “My last couple weeks on the island and when she turned up in London. But it’s different now. She’s hiding something from me and she’s using her mistrust of you as a distraction.”

“Has she always been so hostile toward me?”

“Not to my face,” John replies. “And don’t pretend you aren’t the same way. I know you two don’t get on.”

“I would qualify us as enemies, yes,” Sherlock explains matter-of-factly, “with a common interest.”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

“I know you read the file Mycroft compiled when I asked him to find her.”

“Yes.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Hmm,” John hums. “That’s unfortunate.”

“And very telling.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mycroft didn’t just find her life unremarkable. He found nothing at all. Nothing even remotely interesting and no one is that clean,” Sherlock has a dangerous glint in his eye. His hands are flat on the mattress on either side of his body. He is leaning forward slightly, using his straight arms to support his weight, and looking into John’s eyes with all the excitement of a child in a candy store. “I asked Mycroft to reopen his investigation into Mary Morstan three days ago. He has found where her life starts.”

“Starts? You mean where she was born?” John tilts his head in confusion when Sherlock slowly shakes his head. “Then what does that mean?”

“Mary Morstan began to exist eleven years ago. There is no record of her before she took a job as a groundskeeper in Leeds. Since that day, a series of mysterious and sometimes deadly events have occurred in parallel to her career.”

“In tandem with Moriarty’s activities?”

“At times, yes, but it is difficult to determine his involvement in most cases as yet,” Sherlock licks his lips and speaks in a low, quiet voice. “She works with him, John.”

“It makes sense,” John is nodding. Sherlock pauses for a moment, watching him closely. His surprise barely concealed in his wide, silver eyes. When Mycroft phoned and gave him this news, prompting him to tail John, Sherlock anticipated actually tell John about it to be more troublesome. He certainly didn’t expect John to agree with him, or even see reason. “She knows things, Sherlock.”

The detective’s brow wrinkles, his features shifting minutely to that all-absorbing face he wears during a case. The one that examines every detail and finds the solution in seconds. And suddenly doors in his mind palace burst from their hinges, flooding his mind with memories of he and John on countless cases. The gleam in John’s eye, the skip in their step, the giddy sound in his own voice as he speaks to John. Knowing looks over evidence, lips turned up in subtle smiles, everything they have missed since John went missing and ended up on Moriarty’s island. Sherlock had locked it all away, knowing they might never be able to recapture it, not even knowing if John would recover from his experience. He thought it better to keep the details from himself than to languish in what he could not have, but he deleted nothing. He would not, would never, delete anything about John. He has saved every word John has ever said and every word said about him. 

Sherlock leans backwards as if resisting a strong gust of wind, the memories nearly bowling him over. Instead of feeling overwhelmed, he is filled with joy and anticipation. This moment, right now, is one he thought he might never experience with John again. The thrill of a case, of the chase, of the raw deductive forces of not just himself, but John as well.

“You heard what she said at Angelo’s,” John’s voice draws Sherlock back from where his mind had taken him and the man comes into focus again with the rest of their bedroom. “About our cases - A Study in Pink, the Blind Banker. I may have told her about those. We’ve talked about a lot of things since she moved to London, but I’ve never told her about the pool.”

The word sends a shiver down both of their spines. It is amazing how a four letter word, so seemingly powerless, can fill them both with dread. John straightens his shoulders and fixes Sherlock with a hard, determined eye.

“I don’t talk about the pool. I’ve never told anyone about the pool. Not even Greg,” John breathes. He wets his lips and shifts on the bed. “It was the first time I started to accept...my feelings for you. And one of the only times I let myself consider that you might feel the same way,” he adds quickly. Sherlock’s eyes dart back and forth, searching John’s almost desperately. That night was horrible and wonderful and crushing all at the same time. He found immediately that he wanted to delete it, but also never wanted to delete it. Sherlock wanted to keep and safely guard every emotion he felt that night, even as much as they frightened him. That was the night he knew with every fiber of his being that he was in love with John. At the time, given what he believed about sentiment, Sherlock felt as though it was both the beginning and the end of his life.

“There’s only one way she could know about the pool, Sherlock.”

“John,” the detective rests his hand gently on John’s bare leg, “Mycroft will continue to investigate. We must keep a close eye on Mary and watch what she does, what she is interested in.”

“Keep your enemies close.”

“Yes,” his voice is an excited whisper. “What do you talk about when you’re together? What does she seem to want to talk about most?”

“What happened at work that day, what’s up with Greg,” John shrugs. “She likes to ask me questions about old cases. She reads the blog and wants to know more. Sometimes we talk about our past, growing up and such. Probably everything she’s said was a lie.”

“She’s interested in your past? Maybe in Harry?”

“Oh, god,” John blanches. “You think she helped Moriarty get information about me? Do you think she tortured them?”

John’s voice is hushed, but hard and furious. Sherlock knows John would lash out at Mary this very second to get the answers he wants if she were in the room with them. As much as Sherlock would love nothing more than to hand her over to Mycroft and let him throw away the key, there are answers they need from her. Moriarty’s plans, his allies, and why is she here now? If Moriarty is dead, why would she continue to insert herself in John’s life? She has no further obligation to Moriarty. Has she taken over his empire? Is she that high within his organization?

“I don’t know, John,” Sherlock finally says hesitantly, “but it is certainly possible.”

John closes his eyes and lets out a long, angry exhale. Sherlock raises his hands and holds John gently by the shoulders. His doctor opens his eyes to look directly into Sherlock’s.

“I know it is too much to ask of you,” he begins. John just watches him, already knowing what Sherlock is going to say. His jaw is clenched tight and the muscles working beneath the skin. “We can’t let her know we suspect anything.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “I understand. If I want to do Harry and Jason justice, I need to play along.”

“I’ll be here,” Sherlock assures him quietly. John looks down at his own lap and Sherlock leans forward, touching his forehead to John’s soft hair. He knows all too well how difficult this will be for John and he intends to help him in every way. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

John looks up into his eyes. Though Sherlock can still see anger behind them, there is only tenderness at their forefront. Sherlock slides his hands together to cup John’s face. He has never before seen John, a man so strong, as vulnerable as he is at this moment. His face is so open and trusting. All they mean to each other is shared and spoken silently in their eyes.

“Just hold me tonight, yeah?” John whispers, covering one of Sherlock’s hands with his own. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curls up.

“Whenever you want.”

Moments later, they are lying in bed beneath soft sheets and a duvet. John is huddled into Sherlock’s smooth chest with his arms around his slim waist. Sherlock’s long arms envelop John’s body, draping around his shoulders. They lie there peacefully, stroking one another’s skin and blinking their eyes slowly. They remain silent for the most part, but Sherlock has something on his mind and he cannot let it go unsaid.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry followed you and spied on you,” his voice is a comforting and deep rumble. “It suggests I do not trust you and I do. Very much so.”

“You’re forgiven,” John smiles. “Just don’t make a habit of it.”

He looks into Sherlock’s eyes and the detective presses a soft kiss to his lips. John’s beautiful deep blue eyes slip shut when Sherlock kisses him again, a longer kiss and just as gentle. He mumbles I love you in a whisper and shares a adoring gaze when the kiss is ended.

“How did you know?” Sherlock asks quietly, unable to stifle his own curiosity. John lets out a giggle and smiles wide at his detective.

“I could taste the garlic breadsticks when I kissed you. It’s your undoing, you know.”

Sherlock looks at him with admiration as John’s hand slowly strokes up and down Sherlock’s back beneath the covers, his fingertips grazing that supple ass when his hand is low.

“I continue to disappoint myself with the level to which I underestimate you,” Sherlock sighs almost sadly. John’s lips curl up, revealing his twin dimples. He continues in a playful voice. 

“Well, you have a disadvantage. I’m constantly learning under the superior tutelage of the world’s only consulting detective.”

Sherlock bursts out laughing and John’s cheeks flush. It is a sight that only he is allowed to see. Sherlock, who keeps himself guarded and stoic around all other human beings, is so free before his John Watson. It’s significance does not escape John’s notice and it never will. He plants his lips over Sherlock’s lush mouth and snogs him to within an inch of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heck, yeah! To quote my new favorite message, "Sherlock has your number, bitch." (Thank you, Purrfect!) And now John does too! The plot most definitely thickens. And I still maintain that the first section is killer. I nearly cried just writing it. Just watching the scene play out in my mind and Sherlock's pain brilliantly acted by Benedict, and then John's too by Martin. I don't know how the rest of you feel, but it's super easy for me to picture them acting out all of the scenes in this story, which makes them all the more powerful for me. I hope you all have a similar experience.
> 
> So-ho, where does this leave us? Mary working with Moriarty and now, what? Taking over his role or acting out on her own? Sherlock and John in the know and watching her every move? They are particularly dangerous to villains when they see eye to eye, you know. Mycroft has finally turned up something useful with maybe more to come? Perhaps he's finally getting used to what's had him so distracted of late and things will stop slipping through the cracks.
> 
> And now, because I HAVE to, thank you all for allowing me this extra time to craft a very cool chapter (if I do say so myself - sorry for bragging camp, but I'm really proud of this one) I didn't expect to add. Your support and patience mean the world to me. I'd have never made it this far without all of you. Thank you! I can't wait to see what you all think. Enjoy!!  
> Love, Jane


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You knew these two couldn't stay out of trouble for long.

A jet black mobile sounds with a text message alert.

 

_ He doesn’t know anything. _

_ Or he just isn’t confiding in you. She could have told him anything. _

_ She didn’t. They weren’t even speaking. _

_ Perhaps he just doesn’t trust you. _

_ He does. _

_ Does he? … His associate must be stopped. _

_ He’s a minor inconvenience. _

_ He is far more than that. He was seen skulking around my offices yesterday afternoon. He’s getting too close. _

_ I’ll take care of it. _

_ Like you did before? Even destroying evidence has not stopped him. He knows. He knows too much. … Kill them. Kill them both. _

_ There’s another way. _

_ I didn’t give you options I pay you handsomely to do what I say KILL THEM BOTH _

 

***

It has been four months since John and Sherlock agreed that Mary Morstan was, indeed working with Moriarty. Since that time, they have kept a close eye on her movements and activities. John has continued to have lunch with her and goes out for drinks once or twice a week, no weekends. Interestingly enough, Mary has not invited John out on the weekend since the dinner at Angelo’s. Sherlock suggested he meet them for drinks when they go after work, not wanting to leave John alone with the woman, but John insisted it would look suspicious and Sherlock could not argue with that. He has remained hostile behind John’s back when in Mary’s company, as he would have done regardless. Neither of them has given her any reason to think things have changed

Maintaining his friendship with Mary has been hard on John. He began having nightmares a month into the charade, featuring Mary actively torturing Harry and sometimes Standish. As time went on, she began torturing Sherlock. Then Moriarty joined her. Sherlock nearly called off the whole scheme, stating it was not worth John’s health and safety, but John insisted that it was. He wanted to find justice for Harry and Standish, not to mention determine Mary’s involvement with Moriarty once and for all. 

In an unusual move, John confided in Ella and asked her what he could do to avoid the dreams. She suggested several relaxation techniques before bed, some of which require Sherlock’s assistance. In spite of themselves, the duo has to admit that her methods have helped a great deal. John was at the height of the nightmares during the second month of their scheme and now nearing the end of the fourth month, they have all but stopped. Not to mention he and Sherlock are closer than they have ever been. Working together on cases and against Mary, as well as trusting one another with everything has further solidified their bond. Each of them truly feels he could do anything with the other at his side. 

Sherlock glances at his mobile and huffs a frustrated breath. John should have arrived five minutes ago and it’s not like him to be late without texting. He narrows his eyes in thought and thinks through the possibilities.

  * Leaving late from the surgery. Most likely, but why hasn’t he texted?
  * Intercepted by Greg with a new case. Could be on their way now, but why no text? From either?
  * They just finished with a case, so he can’t be investigating on his own. A loose end could be causing his delay, but is unlikely, as there were no loose ends.
  * Mary Morstan…



Sherlock sneers. Has the woman caused John’s delay? An invitation for drinks perhaps? He would have texted. Has she realized their plan and taken John somewhere? Doubtful. She clearly has no idea they suspect her of any wrongdoing.

Thus far, even with Mycroft’s help, they have not been able to determine whether she is now acting on her own or has taken over Moriarty’s empire. What troubles Sherlock the most about the information Mycroft has provided is that so many of the parallels between her actions and Moriarty’s seem coincidental. He finds himself slowly considering the possibility that she may not be involved with Moriarty at all. He does believe she is the assassin who killed Smart and Martin, but why? For her own purposes or someone else’s? Frankly, that is the most concerning possibility, especially if Sherlock’s suspicions about who hired her are correct.  

Trying to stave off his worries, Sherlock glances at his mobile again and then dials John. To his relief, John picks up almost immediately.

“Sherlock, I am so sorry. Dr. Jannsen was late getting to the surgery and I got stuck with a patient. I’m on my way.”

“It’s all right, John. I just wanted to…” his mind wanders a bit as he turns a small jewelry box over and over in one hand. “...hear your voice.”

“Hear my voice?” John laughs. “Are you okay? Is Molly with you?”

“Fine. Yes, Molly’s here,” he cringes at the lie and looks toward the door to the lab. “We’re running some tests before Lestrade gets here.”

“Right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Sherlock answers with a smile he knows John can hear in his voice.

“You managed a cab without my ‘magical powers’?”

“I did, you smartass. I’ll see you soon.”

Sherlock pockets his mobile after John hangs up. Focusing on the box, he flips it open and gazes at the platinum ring resting inside. It is perfectly sized for John’s left ring finger. 

Sherlock has waited so long for this night. He has asked before for John’s hand and has been refused, but it feels right this time. John seems to have fully recovered from his captivity on Moriarty’s island. Their lives, for all intents and purposes, have returned to normal.

So the stage is set. Sherlock awaits John’s arrival to the very place where they first met - Molly’s lab at St. Bart’s. He looks at the ring once more before closing the box and replacing it in his pocket.

As he thinks through his proposal, his mobile sounds. Assuming it’s a case, Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs. Ready to yell at Greg for the interruption, he grabs his mobile, but stops short when he sees the caller’s number is blocked. He narrows his eyes and opens the line.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re at the hospital,” a dark and somehow familiar voice breathes through the phone.

“Brilliant deduction. I commend you on your powers of covert observation.”

“I can give you what you want.”

“Can you? And what is it that I want?”

“Magnussen,” the voice hisses. Sherlock’s eyes widen, but the voice continues before he can say a word. “The roof. Access door A. Now.”

The call ends. Sherlock checks the time. John should arrive at any moment. Sherlock knows he’s being baited. If he texts John now, he’ll go to the roof as soon as he enters the hospital. Who knows what he’ll be walking into, but it’s Sherlock’s best bet. He sends the text as he jogs from the room and to the stairs.

\------

Sherlock opens the access door and steps out onto the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital, scanning every visible inch. Seeing no one, he walks around the corner to his right, but stops when it doesn’t extend back far enough to provide cover for anyone who might be hiding. He looks toward the edge of the roof and has the sudden urge to stay as far away from it as possible. Clearly, its designers never expected anyone to be on it. A short wall lines its perimeter, more of an aesthetic feature than protective barrier. It is just the right size for a person to trip over and plummet to the ground below, and just wide enough to stand on if one had the notion to jump. Sherlock can’t stop the shudder that creeps through his body at the thought.

\----

John is just closing the door of the cab where it has dropped him in front of St. Bart’s when his mobile sounds a text alert.

_ Forget the lab. Meet me on the roof. Access door A. Be alert. SH _

He frowns and dials Sherlock’s number. Holding the phone to his ear, he looks up to the top of the hospital.

“What the hell is going on, Sherlock?” he mumbles to himself. 

The outline of the roof is just visible by the lights in the night sky. He lets the phone ring, but it goes unanswered. He suddenly feels a tightness in his chest as he thinks of his flatmate on the roof. No doubt, he isn’t alone. Continuing to stare at the roof, John blinks in ernest when he thinks he spots a figure near the edge, but he quickly convinces himself he’s imagining things. His stomach drops to his knees when he gets Sherlock’s voicemail. John pockets his mobile and, finally tearing his eyes from the roof, dashes to the entryway.

\-----

Some pigeons fly from their perch on Sherlock’s left as he moves and, against his better judgment, he casts a look their way. No sooner does he then a voice bids him to turn. When he does, he sees a dark figure in the shadows some distance from where he stands.

“Step away from the door.”

Sherlock walks out into the open, stopping near the center of the roof. Even though the figure is shadowed, he can see the glint of a gun plainly. They stand stalk still for a long moment in a standoff, each sizing up the other and the situation. Before Sherlock can speak, the figure steps forward into the light. A flicker of anger lights the detective’s intense silver eyes as he stares down Mary Morstan, dressed all in black.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” she greets in a calm voice, a smile on her face. Sherlock’s mobile sounds an incoming call. His arm twitches involuntarily and she raises her gun slightly to better aim. “Don’t answer that.”

“You’re his assassin,” he says coolly.

“And he says you’re getting too close,” she answers bluntly. “Where does that leave us?”

“You killed Abigail Smart at his orders,” he continues. She nods once. “And Captain Martin, but Moriarty took care of Harry Watson for you.”

“Very clever, Sherlock,” her smile becoming sinister. “Call it a happy coincidence. Until he kidnapped John. Then he was just annoying.”

“The others had to die because they were investigating Magnussen.”

“But I needed John alive.”

“And suddenly he was gone. You found the island and created a persona that John would trust. You knew all along he was a prisoner.”

“Yes,” a cruel chuckle rumbles from deep in her chest. “Captive audience, if you will. He was so desperate for someone other than James Moriarty, he jumped at the chance to befriend me. Spending time with him was easy. He is such a likeable man. And good looking,” she prods at the detective, “but getting him to trust me...I knew that would take time.”

Sherlock’s mobile finally stops ringing.

“It took much longer than I thought and then Moriarty really started pissing me off. Most of the time, he was pushing John right to me. The pressure he was under made him trust me more every day,” she explained with a note of arrogance in her voice. “But then Moriarty started beating him so badly, leaving him bloodied and helpless the way he did. The island was becoming too dangerous for John and I wasn’t finished yet. Moriarty came to the end of my patience.”

“You  **were** on the island when we rescued him. You could see them on the cliff,” Sherlock breathes. “You would have killed Moriarty yourself if it meant saving John.”

“Yes, I would have,” she grins, “and I wouldn’t have lost a wink of sleep. The man was a bastard. But the bullet I fired only missed the mark because  **you** tackled him. You’re lucky it didn’t hit you.”

Sherlock shows no reaction to her words, or her smirk. All that was afoot those months ago when they took John from Moriarty’s island opens like a book before his eyes. He gives her a sour look and begins to speak.

“Magnussen was tired of their investigation. They were too close to exposing his most secret and ongoing operations. MI6 has been aware of him for some time and has only their best watching his every move. Smart was in charge with Martin and Watson on the team,” Sherlock’s voice echoes across the silent roofscape. The breeze picks up and ruffles the curls from his forehead. Mary’s sharp eyes gleam in the moonlight as she stares him down. “I don’t imagine Magnussen was too keen on Moriarty’s interference. Of course, it didn’t make much difference in the end, just saved you some trouble.”

“And caused some,” Mary adds a little playfully. “Don’t forget that.”

“How could I?” he quips and then grows more serious again. “Magnussen thought Harry may have told John something and you were tasked with finding out what, but why bother? Why not just order his death too?”

“Charles would say because he isn’t a monster,” she tilts her head to one side, her lips curled. “That he has a certain sense of propriety and only eliminates a target when he absolutely has to.”

“And what do you think?” Sherlock asks. She shrugs her shoulders.

“I think he just likes to avoid the hassle that comes with a corpse,” she eyes him carefully, “and I think he isn’t inclined to get on the wrong side of Sherlock Holmes.”

The detective cocks a brow as she begins walking toward him.

“We all know you wouldn’t stop until you found who did it and killed him yourself. Charles has as much interest in self-preservation as anyone.”

She stops. She is relatively far away from Sherlock, but it feels too close for comfort. Her gun is still trained on his heart. He thinks of John on his way to the roof right now. The door opening will provide the perfect opportunity to pounce at the woman and knock the gun from her hand. They can release Mary into Greg’s custody and summon Mycroft so he can finally put an end to Magnussen’s empire. Sherlock lets his mouth twist into a nasty smile.

“You have spent the last four months destroying all of the evidence Smart’s team collected and you’ve done a fair job of it too, but I found what you missed,” his deep voice is stern and commanding. He straightens to his full height and continues. “And what Magnussen missed when he thought he tied up all the loose ends. It is already in the hands of MI6. You are too late, Mary.”

“Charles is right,” she sneers. “You do know too much.”

“Give it up, Morstan,” Sherlock takes a step forward. “You can’t get away.”

“If you take one more step, Sherlock, I swear I will shoot you.”

“No you won’t, Mary,” the corners of his mouth turn up and he slowly takes a step. 

Mary pulls the trigger without blinking.

At first, it doesn’t even hurt. Sherlock looks down at his chest and sees a small hole in his shirt in between the lapels of the belstaff. It is quickly filled red and grows, what looks like a wide trail of blood running down from it and soaking through the shirt. He raises his eyes again as he gasps and feels himself falling backwards.

Suddenly, he is in his mind palace asking someone a question in a panicked voice. 

_ “I’m going into shock. What do I do?” _

_ John’s face hovers above his. _

_ “Don’t die.” _

Snapping back into reality, Sherlock’s hands bounce on the cement roof on either side of his body as it hits the ground. Staring at the stars above, silence all around, it is as if the world has stopped. Until he hears the access door open.

\------

John rushes off a service elevator and up a short flight of stairs to the access door, taking them two at a time. He can’t shake the feeling that Sherlock should stay off the roof of St. Bart’s at all costs, though he can’t explain exactly why. He bursts through the door and sees his flatmate’s body lying motionless on the ground. He runs for him and falls to his knees beside Sherlock’s body, hands yanking open his shirt for a better look at the wound that is spilling blood all over.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he strips of his jacket and presses it against the wound hard. Sherlock gasps in pain and opens his eyes. He wears the look of a man who was just pulled from the brink of oblivion. “Sherlock. Sherlock, don’t move,” John says sternly. “Don’t talk. Just breathe.”

“John,” the man gasps, his eyelids heavy.

“Sherlock, keep still.”

“Mary…” he tries again.

“Mary?”

“Hello, John.”

John is up in a flash, gun drawn and pointed at the woman.

“Put it down.”

“Only if you drop yours,” she smiles. His furious expression goes unchanged as he shakes his head.

“Put it down!” he commands.

“It seems we’ve reached an impasse and Sherlock will die at your feet. Are you ready for that?”

John flinches minutely, but nothing about his posture or resolve changes.

“Let me help him,” his voice is sharp and she nods.

“We put them down together.”

He jerks his head in agreement. Slowly, they both point their guns up to the sky and hold them out to the side. They squat together, place the weapons on the cement, and stand again. 

“Kick it away,” John demands.

When she does, they hold one another’s gaze for a split second before John drops to his knees again to put pressure on Sherlock’s chest. The detective groans and opens his eyes. They are glassy, but he manages to focus on John and choke out a few words.

“John...Mary…”

“I know, Sherlock. Don’t talk, please,” John begs. He fishes around in his wadded up coat for a pocket and pulls his phone from it. He tosses it toward Mary without looking. “Call emergency. Now.”

She steps closer and picks it up. John presses harder, his full attention on Sherlock. Had he looked back at her, he would have seen that she picked up his own gun, the gun she did not insist he also kick away. She approaches him with gun in hand. Unaware, John continues to whisper comforting words to Sherlock, even as the detective tries desperately to warn him, to make him leave.

“He was never the target, John,” she squares herself up behind John and aims at the back of his head. Sherlock meets her eyes over John’s shoulder and gasps a warning that only comes out as a gurgle. John opens his mouth to hush Sherlock when he hears the gun cock behind him. He shifts his gaze forward in disbelief, his shoulders sagging. “You were.”

John’s eyes fall to meet Sherlock’s panicked stare. Sherlock tries to shake his head or move his arms, but his body refuses to obey.

Mary pulls the trigger. Blood sprays onto Sherlock’s face and torso. John falls across his body like a stone, lifeless. A low, painful sound of mourning bursts from Sherlock’s lips in a gust of breath forced from his body by the impact. He wants to hold him, pull John close and save him, but Sherlock’s arms won’t move. His body won’t move.

\------

Greg walks through a hall in St. Bart’s toward Molly, who waves and bounds in his direction. Greg casts a glance at his mobile as she nears and reads a short text from John.

_ Access A to the roof. Now. _

He stops dead just as Molly reaches him.

“What is it?” she asks, her smile fading.

“Where’s roof access A?”

\------

Moments later, they burst through the access door and see their friends lying in a large pool of blood, John’s body still draped over Sherlock.

“Oh, Christ!” Greg shouts, running to them and falling to his knees in the blood. “Molly!”

He doesn’t bother finishing because she is already on Sherlock’s other side barking orders into her mobile. Greg can clearly see the bullet hole marring John’s skin. He rips off his trench coat and presses it against the wound. Molly joins him a second later.

“They’re on their way,” she says, her voice shaking. “Help me roll him this way so you can get to Sherlock.”

Greg nods and they gingerly turn John’s body and roll him off of Sherlock to rest on his back next to the detective. Having kept Greg’s coat on the entrance wound, now pressed solid by John’s weight, Molly uses her lab coat to cover the exit wound. The pressure she applies hopefully working to slow them both.

Now that the detective is no longer blanketed by his blogger, Greg and Molly can see that he is covered with blood - his face, his torso and arms - so much that Greg doesn’t even know where to start looking for wounds. He lifts John’s coat enough to see the hole in Sherlock’s chest, still seeping blood, and presses it down hard again. A labored gasp escapes the pale man’s lips, but he shows no other signs of life.

“Stay with me. Just stay with me, Sherlock,” he says loudly and looks over at Molly, who glances at him with frightened eyes. John’s face is covered with blood. “Oh, god.”

***

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open laboriously and close just as quickly. He opens them again even more slowly and groans silently. At least, he thinks he’s groaning. He tries to grumble quietly, barely able hold his eyes open and wondering why just waking up is so exhausting. Two dark blurs suddenly appear before his eyes. Startled, he presses his head back into the pillow.

“Shh,” comes a soft voice. “It’s Greg, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade.”

“Try to stay calm, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice joins the DI’s.

Sherlock tries to speak, but fails, taking notice of a tracheotomy tube down his throat for the first time. He gags against it until he manages to control the reflex. The two men continue to console him as they finally come into focus. Both look haggard, but relieved. Sherlock is obviously in hospital and struggles to remember how he got there, but his brain is slow to obey. He closes his eyes in frustration and hopes this state of mind will be very temporary. He concentrates and tries to gain access to his mind palace, which is surprisingly easy, given the circumstances. Seconds later, his eyes snap back open. At least a dozen questions pop into his mind, the most important at the top. John.

He implores Greg and Mycroft with his eyes, wishing for pen and paper, realizing just as quickly that his limbs are too slow to be useful. How long has he been unconscious?

“You’ve been unconscious for two days,” Mycroft states as if reading his mind, the bastard. “You are stable and will heal in time.”

“What about John?” Sherlock shouts in his mind. “Where is John?!”

“Steady,” Greg’s voice would be reassuring if Sherlock had any idea of John’s whereabouts.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft leans forward, “we have already gone too long without answers. As much as it pains me to say this, blink once for yes…”

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs without making a sound.

“We know it’s stupid, but there are things we have to know now,” Greg interrupts. Mycroft casts an annoyed glance in his direction and then looks back at Sherlock. He gives him one of his smug smiles and tilts his head slightly.

“Are you going to cooperate, brother mine?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and then blinks once deliberately, putting all the snark he can into it.

“Good. Then we’ll begin.”

“Oh,for god sake,” Sherlock curses to himself. “I really hate you sometimes.”

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Mycroft asks, articulating every word carefully.

Sherlock blinks once.

“Do you know who shot you?”

Sherlock blinks once again, his eyes hard with anger.

“Were you and John shot by the same person?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in a mix of panic and frustration.

“WHERE IS JOHN?!” he demands in his mind. The heart monitor starts beeping faster. Every muscle in his body tenses with effort and still the only result is his fingers slowly curling into fists at his sides. His lips form a soundless snarl around the breathing tube. The touch of Greg’s hand is the only thing that pulls him out of his internal tirade.

“John’s okay, Sherlock. Right now, you have to relax.” 

He stares at Greg, his eyes begging to know more. A nurse scurries in, looks at his monitors and several other things, and ducks out again with the promise of being back soon. Mycroft, who has straightened to his full height, towers over the DI and looks at him reproachfully.

“Inspector, the last thing he needs is false hope,” Mycroft’s voice is low. Greg growls in his direction, but keeps his eyes on Sherlock.

“It isn’t false hope,” he snaps. His voice softens when he addresses the detective. “John hasn’t opened his eyes and isn’t out of the woods yet, but he’s a strong man, Sherlock. You know that. He’s showing really good signs. Started breathing more on his own just this morning. They think he might be off the ventilator in a few days if he keeps improving.”

“Tell me how that’s even possible!” Sherlock thinks desperately, the beeping in the room getting louder and faster. “How does a man survive a bullet in his brain?? No one can do that!”

“He’s going to be okay,” Greg says again, his voice quiet and eyes soft.

“But HOW??” he pleads with Greg in his mind. “Please! Please TELL ME!”

“Look, rest easy, okay? I’ve got Evans on his door. No one can get passed her.”

“Oh, god,” Sherlock thinks frantically, “but she’d let Mary in. Why wouldn’t she let Mary in? Greg! Greg, listen to me!”

“You’re trach tube will come out any day now,” Greg continues, trying hard to calm the obviously very flustered detective. An alarm on the heart monitor begins to sound. “Shit. Sherlock, calm down.”

 “Sherlock, you’ll send yourself into cardiac arrest. Your heart can’t take this kind of stress yet,” comes Mycroft’s voice. “Try to relax.”

 The same nurse and two other people clad in scrubs rush in. One is obviously Sherlock’s doctor. Without much ado, they push a sedative into Sherlock’s IV and take care that he can breathe easily. Greg and Mycroft step out of the way while the trio encourage the detective to try to calm down and breathe slowly. The heart monitor’s beeping has slowed to normal in a minute and Sherlock’s eyes are drooping.

There’s a knock on the door as it opens and Sergeant Dimmock pokes his head in cautiously. Greg and Mycroft, who now stand to the left of the door, both turn to look his way.

“Sorry. Can I have a word, sir?”

“Sure,” Greg nods and looks to Mycroft. “Let me know what they say, yeah?.”

“Of course,” the elder Holmes replies. Greg steps out, just as Sherlock’s doctor approaches Mycroft.

“He’s all right now, Mr. Holmes. Just a bit too much at once. With that in mind,” she explains, “I’m going to keep him sedated for another 48 hours. I had said keeping him conscious would be on a trial basis today and this is sufficient example to conclude that his heart isn’t ready for the stresses he might experience. He will be much better prepared after two more days of rest.”

“I understand, Doctor,” Mycroft answers quietly. “It is probably for the best. He is quite concerned about Dr. Watson and I am afraid that any news of his condition will only upset Sherlock further.”

“I can’t disagree with that,” she glances back at one of the nurses, who nods. “He’s still awake right now if you want to talk a bit longer, but he should fall asleep soon. We’ll keep him more or less out, so I’m afraid he won’t be able to answer anymore questions until we end the sedation.”

“That’s fine, Doctor.”

“Okay,” she smiles tenderly, “just be careful what you say to him in the next few minutes.”

Mycroft nods silently. The doctor thanks him and excuses herself. Both nurses leave shortly after, leaving the Holmes brothers alone. Mycroft steps close to the bed, gazing at Sherlock with uncertainty. It’s an unusual look for him. Even in the haze, Sherlock can see his brother is troubled and eyes him quizzically.

 “I have taken the liberty of ensuring that Mary Morstan not be allowed near you or Dr. Watson. My men are watching both of your rooms and movements carefully, in addition to the Detective Inspector’s officers,” Mycroft watches intently as Sherlock’s body relaxes into the bed more and more. His silver eyes growing less and less sharp. “I am correct in assuming it was she who shot both of you.”

 That gets Sherlock’s attention once again and he stares directly at his brother. He blinks once, fighting to keep his eyes intense but losing the battle. Mycroft nods, looking at the detective with a ghostly white face. Sherlock cocks a boozy brow.

“She has not been seen since she left work two days ago and drew you to the roof. She is being hunted as we speak,” Mycroft continues quickly, knowing he hasn’t much time. “I have not mentioned my suspicions to Lestrade as yet.”

 Sherlock furrows his brow, his mind beginning to fade into sleep. What Mycroft just said seems odd and Sherlock would think through it to determine why, if he just wasn’t so tired. Why is he so tired? His glassy eyes come to rest on Mycroft once again. His brother speaks softly as he watches Sherlock with an uneasy gaze.

“Sherlock…while you were in surgery…” he stops and purses his lips as if lost for words. Sherlock lets his eyes roll back, his head sinking into the pillow. The touch of Mycroft’s fingertips on his hand prompts the detective to look at him again, even if he is incredibly blurry.

“You died on the table,” Mycroft blurts suddenly. Sherlock blinks and stares in shock. Seeing that his words got through, Mycroft fixes him with wide and scared light blue eyes. “They tried to revive you. They nearly called time of death and…you came back.” He let out a puff of air with just a hint of a laugh. “You may disappoint, but you never cease to amaze me, brother.”

He rests his hand on Sherlock’s for a moment and lowers his gaze. He seems to pull himself back together after a moment and lets out a sigh. He moves toward the door and has his hand on the knob when he looks back and meets Sherlock’s half-closed eyes.

“I assume you came back for John,” he says quietly. “I just hope it wasn’t in vain.”

With that, he passes through the door and Sherlock falls into a restorative slumber.

***

Mycroft walks down the hall leading to his brother’s hospital room two days later. Sherlock was taken off sedatives the night before and should be waking sometime this morning. Unable to sleep, Mycroft has spent his time thinking about everything he and his brother need to discuss. The first item on the docket, whether he likes it or not, will be John Watson.

When Mycroft reaches Sherlock’s door, he stands straight and clears his throat. Knocking lightly, he opens it and walks into the room only to see his empty bed.

“They took him for some scans,” a voice explains softly. He turns to see Molly standing in front of the only cabinet in the room. She has both floor to ceiling doors open, showing one side for hanging while the other is lined with drawers. One of Sherlock’s dressing gowns hangs in it and Molly holds his favorite on a hanger, ready to hang next to the other. Concern spreads over Mycroft’s features. “Wait, no. He’s okay,” she smiles. “Apparently, he’s been awake for a few hours. He’s very coherent and isn’t being too troublesome yet, from what I understand.”

“He must still be suffering from the medication’s effects,” Mycroft ventures a small smile.

“I know right,” Molly giggles. “I think he’s just trying to be good so they’ll tell him about John. They’re taking the trach tube out after the scans.”

“Wonderful,” the older man sighs, his smile vanishing. He feels suddenly very weary. 

“Don’t be like that,” Molly soothes. “Yes, he’ll yell at you and demand answers. He’s just worried about John.”

“I know.” They exchange a look. Mycroft smiles and gestures toward her. “It was nice of you to bring his things.”

“Oh, it was Mrs. Hudson’s idea actually, “ she replies with a quiet laugh. “She called last night to see if I’d bring them in on the way to work. She didn’t want to interrupt your work ‘saving the world’.”

They share a short chuckle. Mycroft brushes her elbow with his fingers and walks to a chair to sit. Molly turns back to the closet and hangs the dressing gown. She reaches into a duffle to pull out some socks, a small bag containing a selection of pants, and another bag full of toiletries. She opens a drawer, but stops a moment before putting them inside and draws out a small jewelry box. She opens it slowly and gasps.

“Myc, come look at this,” she faces him as he walks to her side. She holds the open box out to him. “In this drawer. His wallet, phone, all the things in his pockets that night, and this.”

Their eyes fall to the beautiful platinum ring. The small diagonal lines scored around its outer edge seem to shimmer in the light. An inscription cut on the inside of the ring catches Mycroft’s eye. He delicately removes it from the box and reads it aloud.

“ ‘What I’ve meant to say always.’ ” He turns to look at Molly, who has tears in her eyes.

“You have to tell him, Myc. You have to tell him the truth. All of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, my friends, I have little to no time to add something to the end. I just finished editing this and HAD to post.  
> YIKES, what a chapter! The blocked number, the roof, John watching from the ground..anybody fear the Reichenbach? I know you're out there.   
> But instead, damn you, Mary Morstan!!!! I wanted to include her shooting Sherlock, complete with "If you take another step, I swear I will kill you. No you won't, Mary." 0_0, but wanted the twist of shooting John too. AHH!  
> JAWN!  
> I may add more later. Until then, make up your own Deadpool style questions. And... go!  
> Love, Jane


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's awake again and he asks to see John.

Mycroft, Molly, and Greg stand outside Sherlock’s door. They look at one another, each feeling they have been in this situation before, but this time it’s so much worse. The detective is likely to kill any one of them, or all of them, as soon as they enter. Whichever one is closest to him will go down first. Molly bites her lip and looks between the other two. Taking a deep, collective breath, they steel themselves for the onslaught on the other side of the door. Greg meets Mycroft’s eyes and gives him a quick nod. With a knowing look, Mycroft knocks lightly and then opens the door. Sherlock’s head snaps up as soon as they enter. He’s sitting up in bed, wearing his own pajamas and dressing gown. He glares at them, eyes dark with fury.

“Where is John?”

“It’s so good to see you, Sherlock,” Molly steps forward brightly, hoping to dampen his anger with a pleasant distraction. Greg can’t help but raise his brows. The woman has balls.

“Tell me, Mycroft,” Sherlock trains the glare on his brother, having none of Molly’s smiles. 

“Calm down, brother.”

“Damn it! Don’t tell me to calm down!” he shouts. “You have had me sedated for four days!”

Greg suddenly appears at his side, speaking in a quiet voice and placing a hand on Sherlock’s forearm.

“Steady, Sherlock. He’s going to be okay,” he assures him. The man’s head snaps around to meet the DI’s brown eyes.

“Then why the fuck have I...”

“Your doctor wanted you to rest and heal before putting any undue stress on your heart,” Mycroft explains, his voice raised loudly over everyone else. “She did allow you to wake two days ago and you nearly went into cardiac arrest. It was decided that you be sedated for another two days. We weighed the options and I thought it best…”

“ **You** thought?” Sherlock bites out forcefully. “You’ve always insisted you know what’s best for me and you’re always wrong.”

“I am correct his time,” Mycroft cuts him off quickly. Sherlock glares daggers, his fury bubbling nearly to the breaking point. And, yet, he almost feels a twinge of guilt as he looks into his brother’s sad eyes. The man continues on before Sherlock can begin ranting. ”It’s John. John Watson is what’s best for you. I’m sorry.. I’m sorry I ever stood in your way.”

Eyes darting from one Holmes to the other and then to Greg, whose mouth hangs open in shock, Molly clears her throat and throws herself in the line of fire. She addresses Sherlock firmly, coming right to the point.

“John didn’t really start to show dramatic improvement until two days ago, the same day you regained consciousness. He opened his eyes and started breathing more on his own. They took him off the ventilator yesterday afternoon,” she explains. “He can comprehend conversation and move his body. It’s amazing for only a couple of days.”

Sherlock’s eyes are locked on her, silently pleading for more. His heart is swelling with intense hope, in spite of the anger that still wells inside him. Where is John now? Has he asked for him? How has he survived? He opens his mouth so all of his questions can spill out, but then notices her expression faltering. The light in his eyes all but vanishes.

“What is it?” he demands in a quiet voice. “What’s wrong?”

“He hasn’t said a word. Or even made a sound,” Greg answers. Sherlock looks at him with wide eyes. “There may be damage to his vocal cords. He may never speak again.”

A heavy silence fills the room. Silence. Sherlock’s lips part slightly in disbelief. His eyes fall to his hands resting in his lap, his mind suddenly empty of all thoughts, save John. John. A world without John’s laugh, his jokes or insults. A world without talking through cases with John. No more of his sighs or growls. Sherlock squeezes his eyes tightly shut. Would he ever hear John call him a smartass again? Or say I love you? And how is John now? Does he know? John.

John! Sherlock releases a sudden breath as his eyes snap open, full of resolve. No. Only a world without John Watson is unacceptable. Whatever this means, whatever John needs, Sherlock will give all of himself. He will talk to John, read to him, attend speech therapy with him, visit Ella with him if it comes to that. Sherlock will run mother fucking flashcards with John if that’s what John wants to do. John. His John.

But something still doesn’t make sense, and maybe it doesn’t matter, but Sherlock must know. He looks at each of them in turn and asks a question that has burned itself in his brain.  _ How is John even alive? _

“I don’t understand,” he swallows hard, the memories of that night on the roof flooding back to him unbidden. “He was shot in the head. How did he survive?”

“The throat,” Mycroft corrects. Sherlock looks at him in disbelief. “He was shot at the base of his neck, Sherlock, not his head.”

“Which is almost as bad,” Greg chimes in. “He couldn’t breathe. He could have bled out. You both could have. If Molly hadn’t been there…”

“If he hadn’t texted when he did, we never would have made it to the roof in time,” Molly interrupts. 

“Who texted?” Sherlock frowns. All three look at him with uncertain expressions. Molly glances to Greg, who turns to the detective.

“John.”

Sherlock sits as still as stone. He doesn’t understand. John didn’t text anyone. He couldn’t have texted anyone. Mary shot him almost as soon as he walked through the access door. Sherlock is sure of it. He might have been in and out at times, but he is certain he was awake and aware the whole time John was with him. 

A sudden flash of John’s face right before he was shot bursts from a foggy door in Sherlock’s mind palace, one he was trying to keep closed. Disbelief, betrayal, sadness. His eyes glistened when he met Sherlock’s hazy, half-lidded stare. They were filled with fear, but not for his own life, which was sure to end in a split-second. No. John was afraid for Sherlock. As he lay there with blood oozing from his chest, his heart only serving to pump out more. Even with a gun to his head, John’s only thoughts were of Sherlock and who might help him live once John was dead. The memory is almost too much to bear.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s voice pulls the detective from the agony of his thoughts. He blinks rapidly and looks at her face, canvassed with worry. “Are you okay?”

He sniffs and wipes at his wet eyes with the heels of his hands. He holds his fist in front of his mouth, trying to think, to collect himself. Sherlock inhales deeply and drops both hands into his lap. He looks up at Mycroft and bites his lip. After a moment, Sherlock straightens his spine and his long neck with it, sitting as tall as he can.  

“I want to see him now,” he says firmly.

“Moving you for scans and tests is one thing, but too much could slow your progress or even cause harm. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Instead of pouting or shouting, as Mycroft expects, Sherlock’s eyes soften and his expression becomes one of near desperation. His deep voice is quiet when he speaks.

“Mycroft, I…need to see him. Please.”

Unable to keep the shock from his face, Mycroft looks at his little brother like he’s seeing a man he’s never known. And yet, he can clearly see a bit of the boy he consoled after their parents died. He swallows hard.

“Of course.”

***

Roughly an hour later, a nurse wheels Sherlock to the door of John’s hospital room. Mycroft, Molly, and Greg follow. She stops for a moment to tell Sherlock he will go in alone while the others wait outside. When he nods his reply, she pushes him in and positions his wheelchair next to the bed. She checks John briefly to see he’s sleeping peacefully, gives Sherlock a few encouraging words, and leaves the room.

Sherlock’s eyes drift slowly along John’s body from head to toe. He seems smaller than usual, and so fragile. A variety of tubes and wires are attached to his body. An IV is attached to his left arm through a central line - fluids and pain medication. Sherlock looks at his doctor’s pale face and feels his eyes moisten. John is naked from the waist up, but is largely covered with bandages. The largest of which wraps around his right shoulder, crosses over the base of his neck and left pectoral, and wraps under his left arm. There are more bandages taped over the base of his neck, beneath the larger bandage. His right arm rests in a sling, keeping his broken clavicle immobile.  

After Mycroft left Sherlock’s room to speak with his doctor about visiting John, Greg and Molly explained John’s injuries in more detail. Instead of shooting him in the head, as she was poised to do, Mary lowered her gun before pulling the trigger. The bullet entered John’s right shoulder, very near the base of his neck and exited out the front right where his clavicle meets his sternum. The bone shattered and was surgically repaired with plates and pins. The surgeon told them it would take a good four to six weeks to heal. The bullet’s trajectory was also as such that it compromised John’s trachea and, with it, his ability to speak and breathe. Both Molly and Greg placed particular emphasis on the fact that John’s doctor is very optimistic and said his already breathing on his own is nothing short of a miracle.

The constant beeping of the heart monitor echoes in Sherlock’s ears as he gazes at his flatmate. John,  **his** John, who was always so alive and full of energy, should never have been reduced to this. Sherlock told him to go up on the roof. He summoned him to his death, and for what? No one had seen Mary since that night. She escaped. He sighs and furrows his brow in despair. But he shakes his head as soon as the thought occurs, trying to tell himself that John is who Mary wanted and not him. She would have lured him to the roof herself if Sherlock hadn’t done it. It won’t do any good to blame himself and John would be cross with him for trying. He closes his eyes tightly for just a moment and then opens them again. His voice comes out as a whisper when he speaks.

“God, John. How many times will I have to sit beside you just like this before…” he trails off and stares at John with wet eyes. “Just don’t die. Please don’t die.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets his gaze fall to John’s hand. His own hovers above it, fingertips coming down to touch it like the most delicate china. He heaves out a sigh as if he’s only just proved to himself that John is actually there. Leaning forward, he kisses John’s knuckles tenderly, his tears falling on John’s wrist. 

A weak whisper drifts through the air, so quiet against the sound of the heart monitor and his own movements that Sherlock can’t be certain he heard it at all. He looks up at John’s face, shoulders sagging when he sees his eyes still closed and his features unchanged. But still… He bites his lip.

“John?” he ventures quietly.

“Sherr...ock,” John’s eyes are closed, his lips barely moving. Still, Sherlock can hear a distinct murmur.

“John,” he repeats in a louder voice. Sherlock rises quickly to his feet only to lurch forward onto John, catching one hand on the edge of the bed and the other on John’s thigh. Pain burns from his chest like fire and his face twists in pain, a low cry breaks from his throat. John’s eyes pop open, his free hand immediately reaching for the detective’s shoulder to offer assistance. Sherlock blinks in surprise at John’s strength. It doesn’t fit the picture of the seemingly weakened man lying before him.

“Sherlock,” his voice is still very quiet and raspy. He sounds as though he is struggling to speak, but will be damned if it’ll stop him. “Jesus, are you all right? You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

Without even listening, Sherlock covers John’s mouth with his own. His lips are soft and warm, just as Sherlock remembers. John attempts another few words against Sherlock’s insistent tongue before giving in and opening his mouth to the licking, nipping, and caressing. His eyes roll back as he closes them and tilts his head into the kiss. In a moment, his hand is on Sherlock’s cheek holding him close and steady. Sherlock’s trembling arms are on either side of John’s head, hands braced on the bed. He’s all but crawled up onto John’s body, casting not a thought to their physical condition.

They are gasping when their lips part, both in pleasure and pain. Sherlock ignores everything but John and quickly seeks out every inch of the man’s face with his lips, pressing kisses to all he can reach. John is breathing heavily. Every breath shudders with strain and effort. 

“Sherlock, I…”

“Don’t talk,” he says between kisses. “I know you’re in pain. (nibbling at his neck) Just relax.”

He stops for a breath and looks into John’s sparkling deep blue eyes. He shifts until he is sitting on the bed next to John, facing him and a hand caressing his cheek. Even pale and covered with bandages, John is gorgeous. And alive. Sherlock is nearly overwhelmed by happiness and feels so lucky that John is still alive. He tilts his head, looking at John like he is the most precious thing on the planet. 

“God, I love you,” and he’s kissing John again - his lips, cheeks, eyes, biting at his earlobes. “I love you so much.”

“Sherlock,” John whispers desperately, his back arching. “Sherlock, I…”

“Shh…” Sherlock’s mouth works over John’s jawline, down the left side of his neck, and to his bare shoulder. He licks along the lines of John’s scar with a luxurious tongue and John gasps. As his back arches yet again, his left arm wraps around his lover as best it can and pulls their bodies together. Sherlock can feel John, hard and pressing against his leg. He growls his approval.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Fuck.”

Sherlock pulls back and looks at John with an indecent gleam in his eyes. He lunges down without a word and presses his devilish smile against John’s parted lips. The kiss is hot and passionate. John can’t breathe, doesn’t want to breathe. He never wants to stop, never wants to let go. 

But does when they hear the click of the door handle opening. He presses his lips up against Sherlock’s one more time and is rewarded with a gentle bite to his lower lip before Sherlock slowly, painfully pushes himself up to sit straight. John watches with concern in his eyes and tries to help the detective with his free arm. Sherlock gives him a small smile of reassurance and then turns to their three visitors. Mycroft’s mouth curls smugly.

“I see I was correct in telling the nurses your rapid heart rate was nothing to be concerned with, Doctor.”

“Nothing unexpected there, eh, mate?” Greg jokes before donning a more serious expression. “You should be back in your chair though.”

Sherlock allows him to help and is soon back in his wheelchair, but he still holds John’s left hand. Greg stands back with his hands on his hips and a grin on his face. 

“I told you both this would be the best medicine,” he declares cheerily. John and Sherlock are both wearing small smiles, and John opens his mouth to speak, but no one seems to notice. Greg clears his throat and steps a little closer, looking suddenly very somber indeed. “I hate to do this, but we have to talk about what happened. I need your statements and have to get my detectives looking…”

“Do not worry about using your resources to pursue the killer, Inspector,” Mycroft interrupts. “Special forces are already on the case.”

“How can they be if we don’t know who…” he stops abruptly, a glimmer of realization in his dark brown eyes. He looks to Sherlock in anger and disbelief. “You told him?”

“Two days ago, just after sedation,” Mycroft answers curtly.

“You knew all this time and you didn’t tell me?!” Greg booms in fury.

“Given the circumstances, I thought it best to keep it from you.”

“You what?! You disrupted a police investigation. I could arrest you!

“I don’t believe that is necessary.”

“I bet you don’t, you smug bastard,” Greg stares him down, exuding anger from every pore. John speaks as loudly as he can before Greg continues. It is nowhere near his normal volume, so he pulls his hand loose from Sherlock’s and clasps Greg’s wrist to make sure he has the man’s attention.

“It was Mary.”

The DI’s eyes blink wide and he stares at John in utter shock. His breaths become very shallow and rapid. His every movement ceases and he stands as if temporarily in suspended animation. Suddenly, his balance falters, but he catches himself and John grips him tighter to help keep him steady. Greg focuses in on him and swallows hard.

“Mary?” he asks in a ghostly tone.

“Yes. Mary Morstan shot us both,” John rasps. “I’m sorry, Greg.”

Greg’s face drains of color. Sherlock, mistaking Greg’s devastation for mere surprise, begins explaining in his authoritative “I’m solving a case” voice.

“Mary Morstan lured us to the roof. John, because he was her assignment from the beginning. She made herself available to him on the island to gain his trust in hopes of learning anything she could about his sister. I became a target as I came too close to the truth. She is under the employ of a man called Charles Magnussen. She killed Abigail Smart and Captain Arthur Martin at his orders. She is the assassin we have been looking for,” he pauses for a breath. “She may have also been working with…”

He trails off when he sees that Greg has gone deathly pale. The DI’s eyes are glistening and he looks a touch sick. John, still holding his wrist, looks at the man with a genuine and sympathetic expression.

“What is it?” he asks in confusion. “John?”

“Nothing,” Greg blinks, quickly collecting himself. “Everything’s fine.”

His voice comes out all wrong and he clears his throat to restore a normal tone. Sherlock watches as Greg pulls his wrist free from John’s grasp and steps back from the bed. He runs a hand through his silver hair.

“Look, I have to make some calls, but I’ll need the details,” he glances from Sherlock to John. “If you’re both up for it?”

“Sure,” John agrees gently. “Greg…”

“Great,” he heads for the door swiftly. “I’ll be back in a few.”

They all four watch as he slips through the door. Sherlock has a brow cocked, trying to deduce what is going on between Greg and John, but Mycroft’s voice interrupts his train of thought.

“Sherlock, I have something to tell you,” he begins carefully. He glances at John. “It has nothing to do with the case.”

“It can wait,” Sherlock informs his brother coldly. “The woman nearly cost John his life. She must be caught.”

“I assure you, brother, it is of the utmost importance.”

“Nothing is more important than John.”

“I should’ve told you months ago,” Mycroft continues, ignoring Sherlock’s words.

“Unless you know the woman’s whereabouts, it is of no concern to me.”

“ **I’m married,”** Mycroft blurts. The room is filled with silence. The elder Holmes flattens his lips into a thin line and adds, “I’ve been married for three months.”

Sherlock stares at his brother blankly. Married. Married? Mycroft? Had he fallen into a black hole and come out on the other side of the universe where the impossible can happen every day? Is that why John can speak? Is that why John is still alive? Is this some kind of dream? He gapes at Mycroft, who breaks eye contact to look at Molly. He reaches out an open hand to her and, much to Sherlock’s shock, she steps forward and takes it.

“When Molly took time off to move, she was moving into my home. She’s the reason I refused to help you find John. Moriarty knew. We met before John was taken to the island. He threatened to…” he looks at Molly and she squeezes his hand, “to kill her if I interfered.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Sherlock finds that his mind is completely devoid of words. He feels as though the rug was not just pulled from beneath their feet, but that it was never there to begin with. His mind is filled with anger and confusion. The detective continues to stare. He hasn’t blinked once.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I should have trusted you with the truth long ago,” he swallows deliberately. “And I should have helped you find John regardless. You are my brother. I promised our parents I would always take care of you and that extends to the man you love.”

Sherlock remains speechless, his mind still struggling to comprehend his brother’s words. He met with Moriarty? He had a fucking meeting with James Moriarty before John was taken?! Why the fuck didn’t he put a bullet in his head?

“Molly found something today that belongs to you,” Mycroft interrupts his thoughts once again. Sherlock focuses a piercing glare on the older man. “Something you had the night you were shot.“

The anger on Sherlock’s face melts away in an instant, replaced by wide-eyed realization. He knows exactly what Molly found amongst his belongings. His lips part slightly, but Mycroft barrels on as if his next words are the most important he will ever say to his baby brother. 

“Do it, Sherlock. As quickly as you can. Don’t wait any longer.”

They stare at one another, the room in utter silence. It’s almost too much to take in. Mycroft married. And to Molly of all people. Sherlock studies them intently, trying to reason it out or find even the slightest hint of deception. He finds none. What would be the point? What would be the bloody point of lying and why the hell would Molly go along with it?! She would never go along with it, especially after lying to Sherlock about helping Moriarty. Sherlock furrows his brow, tiny lines creasing just above his nose.

Suddenly, Greg enters the room. The newlyweds quickly drop hands and shuffle slightly apart. Greg doesn’t seem to notice as he walks to John’s hospital bed. So Greg doesn’t know then, Sherlock reasons, but John does not look surprised in the least. The detective narrows his eyes and makes a mental note to have a long talk with his flatmate once they are alone. 

“Well,” Molly starts tentatively, “I have work to catch up on. I’m so glad you’re both all right. I can’t tell you how good it is to hear your voice, John. I’ll be back for a visit tomorrow.”

She steps close to John’s bed and kisses his cheek. He thanks her in a whisper. She casts a glance to Sherlock, gives him a small smile, and walks to the door. Mycroft follows quickly. 

“I must also be off,” he avoids the sharp eyes of both his brother and Greg, even as he speaks to the DI. “I will have updates shortly and will inform you of our progress. I shall keep nothing from you now, Detective Inspector.”

Rather than respond, Greg nods stiffly. Once Mycroft and Molly are out of the room, Greg turns to the detective and his blogger. He interviews the duo extensively, remaining appropriately detached, except for a few minutes in the very beginning when it suddenly dawns on him that John has been speaking to him. Greg seems to take great joy in having something positive to focus on, even if only for a moment. Then he is back to business, getting all the details of the shootings and their suspicions of Mary.

When they are finally finished, the DI seems exhausted and a good five years older. He thanks them as he stands, assures them that he will also be looking for her ‘I’ll be damned if I let bloody MI6 muscle in and do it on their own’, and makes to leave.

“Greg,” John’s voice catches him at the door. He turns to face his friend. John also looks tired, his voice beginning to sound less strained. “Thanks for everything. I’m sorry about all this.”

“Ta,” he replies. “It’s not your fault, but ta.” 

He bids them goodbye and disappears through the door, closing it behind. Sherlock’s eyes go immediately from the door to John, eyeing him suspiciously.

“What?” John asks with apprehension.

“You did not seem at all surprised by Mycroft’s announcement,” Sherlock probes, resting his arm on the bed and leaning close.  John shrugs.

“Molly told me they’d been dating right before Moriarty kidnapped me from the lab. They’d become close quickly when she was helping identify his body,” he explains. “Then Mycroft told me they were engaged when he locked himself in my hospital room and interrogated me after you all saved me from the island. When I spoke to Molly after, she said it would be a short engagement. Didn’t expect it would be quite this short though.”

“Indeed. Mycroft isn’t one to make snap decisions.”

“Believe me, Sherlock, he thought about it all very carefully,” he looks at Sherlock’s pondering face and folds his fingers around the detective’s hand. “He found something. Something he thought he would never find and he grabbed it with boths hands, protected it fiercely. You can hardly blame him.” 

Sherlock meets his eyes. The allusion to their own relationship not lost on him. Yes, he certainly does understand Mycroft’s desire to protect  **and** marry. He inhales deeply, suddenly wanting to ask John to be his husband at that very moment. But he holds it in. Crinkling his brow, he leans forward and kisses John instead. A sweet mingling of lips that culminates in Sherlock resting his own forehead against John’s.

“What am I missing with Greg?”

“He and Mary are dating,” John sighs. “Have been for at least the four months we’ve suspected her. I didn’t know until he told me about a week before the roof. I would’ve warned him off of her. Told him our suspicions.”

“Of course!” Sherlock snaps his head back to look at his flatmate. “Once you made a concerted effort to spend less time with her, she turned to Greg for information.” 

John sighs and looks away, completely annoyed with himself. 

“I wish I’d realized. He talked about meeting someone, but wouldn’t say who,” John grumbled. “She probably convinced him it would be fun if they didn’t say anything and surprised us with it at some point. I should’ve pressed him harder, been there for him. Been a better friend.”

A gentle hand under his chin swivels his face back to Sherlock’s. He’s smiling tenderly, a certain softness to his eyes.

“You were there for him, John. You listened when he needed to talk and you let him tell you only what he wanted without judgment,” the detective’s deep voice is low and soothing. “And you’ll help him now too. He’ll be all right.” 

“When did you become so insightful?” John’s lips quirk up. “I thought you didn’t know anything about relationships and friendships.” 

“I am not entirely without knowledge. I have been learning from a true master of interpersonal affairs. He says supporting one’s partner with sincerity is of the utmost importance,” he straightens his long neck and gives John a playful smile. John shoves at him lightly and laughs. Sherlock joins him and then fixes him with curious eyes. “Am I mistaken? Is that not what boyfriends do?”

“Not all of them,” a broad smile spreads across John’s face. “You are definitely an exceptional boyfriend.” He giggles and kisses Sherlock’s lips softly. “Don’t look so surprised, babe. You have a lot of excellent boyfriend qualities.”

“Did you just call me babe?” Sherlock furrows his brow.

“Uh... Yeah, I did. Must’ve just slipped out.”

Sherlock’s arms are around John before he even realizes the man has moved. Their lips are pressed together hotly. Sherlock’s separate, drawing John’s apart with them. Tongues slide together, winding around one another in lazy circles. Sherlock licks John’s perfect lower lip as he pulls back to look at him.

“John, if I’d lost you…”

“You didn’t,” he interrupts softly, brushing fingers through his detective’s curls. He kisses his lips lightly, and the tip of his nose. “You won’t.”

“I intend to spend the rest of my life with you, John.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

Sherlock gazes into his flatmate’s deep blue eyes, so loving, so sincere. He can feel it in his chest and welling up in his throat. The question he wants to ask John. The question he intended to ask that night. _ Do it, Sherlock. As quickly as you can.  _ Perhaps Mycroft was right, for once. John is smiling at him sweetly and stroking his silky curls lazily. Sherlock wets his lips, parting them so the three words can slip past.  _ Mary me, John.  _ But before he can put voice to them, the door to the room swings open wide and Greg walks in without warning. He stops in the middle of the room and watches as they release one another and settle for holding hands.

“Sorry,” his voice is timid. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Sherlock blurts in annoyance. “But it’s fine.”

“Thanks,” he shuffles forward, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “I don’t even know why I’m here, honestly. I just can’t imagine going back to my place alone right now. Plus, I kind of want to be here if she tries anything.”

“She won’t,” Sherlock replies, shaking his head. “She has had ample opportunity to gain access to us, with or without guards. She has no interest in pursuing this further. Go home, Greg.”

The DI meets his eyes and gives him a thoughtful nod. 

“Have you seen her at all since that night?” John asks, beginning to sound more raspy. He reaches for a glass of water and drinks.

“No,” he shakes his head. “Haven’t seen her. Haven’t heard a word. I tried calling the last couple days, but not a thing.”

His shoulders sag and he runs a hand through his hair.

“Why don’t you stay here a while and play cards or something?” John suggests, but Greg shakes his head right away.

“No. No, you two need to rest. You’ve had quite enough for one day and I wouldn’t dream of delaying your recovery,” he takes a step toward Sherlock’s wheelchair. “You want me to take you back to your room?”

“I do not,” the detective straightens his body haughtily. “I do not intend to leave.”

“Right,” Greg grins. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Greg,” John starts. The DI stops halfway out the door to look back. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too,” he sighs. “Thanks. Night.”

When the door closes and their friend is gone, John releases a long breath, still watching after him. 

“God, poor Greg. I barely know what to say. Hey! What are you doing?”

Sherlock is in the process of crawling onto the bed next to him. It clearly isn’t easy for him, his angular face scrunched up in pain. John has a notion to order him back in his chair, but it’s too late to stop him, so he helps pull the detective onto the bed. Once Sherlock has settled next to him, John tries to turn on his side too, but quickly discovers that the bandages and pain prohibit it. To his chagrin, turning his head is also difficult and he has to settle for giving Sherlock side looks. Anticipating these limitations, Sherlock props up on one arm so John can see him better and presses his body against John’s for support.

“Is that better?”

“For me,” John answers. “You have a hole in your chest, Sherlock. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“It’s worth it.”

“No it isn’t. I want you all in one piece. You’d never get away with this if I was your doctor.”

“Perhaps it’s good that you are not,” he smiles mischievously. “Just this once.”

He drapes his arm across John’s body, resting his hand on John’s hip and his head against his left shoulder. Paying close attention to any sharp inhalations or other signs of discomfort.

“Is this okay?”

“It’s perfect, if it doesn’t hurt you.”

“My chest is fine, John. The only danger to it was alleviated the moment I saw you.”

You are a hopeless romantic,” John informs him with a little laugh. The detective’s dark brown curls are much too tempting and John is running his fingers through them again with a sigh on his lips.

“I am, aren’t I?” Sherlock smiles genuinely. “Never would’ve expected that.”

They share a quiet chuckle. Sherlock snuggles closer to John. He honestly never expected Sherlock would be such an avid snuggler either. He smiles down at the living, breathing man resting beneath his chin. All around them is peaceful and quiet and calm. Yet, a frown creeps into his expression, in spite of it.

“Do you really believe Mary won’t come back to finish the job?”

“Yes,” he lifts his head to look at John. “Mary Morstan is no longer a threat to us.”

“But she’s an assassin!” his voice is incredulous. “She was paid to kill us and we are very much alive.”

“She knows, John. She made sure of it.”

John blinks and looks at him, dumbfounded. Without thinking, he tries to push himself up for a better view of the detective, but pain shoots up from his neck into his head and down into his shoulder. He collapses onto his back, his eyes clamped shut. Sherlock pushes himself up to an oddly twisted posture.

“Are you all right? How can I help?”

“Lie down! You can’t twist around like that,” his hand grasps at the lapels of Sherlock’s pajamas gently, but insistently. Sherlock allows himself to be guided back down to rest on his elbow again. He locks eyes with John, still concerned, one of his large hands splayed on John’s bare chest.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” the doctor grumbles in a frustrated tone. “How do you know?”

“What?”

“That she meant not to kill us. That she won’t come back for us. How do you know?”

“You saw the way in which she killed Abigail Smart and Captain Martin. She’s a crack shot, John. Second only to you and suddenly she’s off the mark not once, but twice from a few feet away and point blank.” He gives him his classic knowing look and a shake of his head. “Not a chance.”

“She came bloody close though,” John winces.

“Yes, and then she texted Greg with your phone and told him to get to the roof. Not to mention doing it on the roof of a hospital.”

“What? My phone?”

“Greg and Molly told me he received a text from you that drew them to the roof,” Sherlock explains. The skin of John’s chest so warm and inviting, he begins to ghost his thumb gently over John’s nipple. Although he gives no indication that he notices, it immediately stiffens beneath Sherlock’s touch. “I knew you couldn’t have done it. Mary is the only one left.”

“All right then, so she wanted to make a good show of it,” John comments thoughtfully. “But why? Why not just do it or not do it?”

“Mm. For Magnussen.”

“To convince him she really was trying to kill us? You think it worked?”

“No. She’s made herself vanish. She has either finished the job satisfactorily, is hiding from him, or she has already been eliminated.”

“I’m not sure which is more likely,” John pauses and gives Sherlock an uneasy look. “Will he send someone else for us?”

“Probably,” Sherlock considers, “but he hasn’t yet. He wants something from us.”

“What could he possibly want from us? We’re already on his kill list.”

Sherlock relaxes back on John’s shoulder, his arm stretching across his body again.

“I’m quite sure he’ll let us know.”

John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s body and kisses the top of his head. The detective smiles and leans in closer. They spend the next few minutes in comfortable silence, listening to one another breathe. John’s even out in no time and Sherlock knows he is asleep. He smiles and traces his fingers along the contours of John’s muscled torso. When his fingertips drift down to John’s ticklish belly, his flatmate’s body jerks and he giggles in his sleep. Sherlock’s smile grows. That is, without a doubt, the most adorable thing he has ever seen. Not that he’ll share that with John. 

He props up again for a moment to brush his lips over John’s. On par for the course, John’s tongue darts out to lick his own lips, catching Sherlock’s as well just from proximity. Sherlock lets out a shuddering sigh, his eyes dark with arousal. He snuggles down on John’s shoulder again. The both of them need to sleep, so he’ll wait. This time.

“Good night, husband,” he whispers.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! First, I have two apologies. I never did get back to the end notes on the last chapter AND I'm sorry this one took so long to come out. It's been a weird week (eye roll). You don't want to know. I'll try to get the next two out faster. I think there will still be 10 chapters in this Part, but I'll let you know if it changes. 
> 
> Now then, a couple shockers in this one, yeah? A secret marriage AND a secret couple?? My, oh my.  
> I love Sherlock and John in this one. Sherlock is so uncertain at times and then full of resolve. He loves John so much and makes it clear he will do anything for him, and to help him. Likewise with John trying to keep Sherlock from doing more than he's ready for. And their kissing and snuggling. They're adorable. Suffice it to say, I am full of warm fuzzies.  
> But how long will it last?  
> Da Da Daaaaaaa!
> 
> Thank you and I love you all. If you feel moved to comment, please do. They are very welcome and give me great joy indeed. Much love, Jane


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, friends, no spoilers.  
> But I will say this. It's one hell of a chapter.

A considerable time has passed. Both Sherlock and John have been released from hospital. No cases have been undertaken in an effort to recover and get their lives back to normal before adding killers and kidnappers again. The duo agreed on this the day before the both went back home and Sherlock, surprisingly, has dutifully observed the arrangement...much to his chagrin. He once told John that if it weren’t for the sex, he’d lose his mind to boredom. John was inclined to agree. He knew full well that sex was actually one of those more strenuous activities they should have waited longer to resume, but neither could keep their hands off the other and they did make a point to take it slowly at first. Well, as slowly as they could bear.

In the weeks that have gone by, nearly every element of life at Baker Street is more or less back to normal for both men. Now that John is out of his sling, he knows he will soon be asked if taking cases is acceptable, or he’ll just discover Sherlock has taken a case without saying anything. Neither would be surprising, especially as the detective had left the flat early that morning without mentioning what he was up to. He hadn’t even woke John to say goodbye, as a matter of fact. 

When John did get up for the day, he went about his usual routine and ate breakfast. Once he is finished and the dishes are washed up, John strolls into the sitting room and sits with the newspaper. He’s in the middle of current events when he hears footfall on the stairs to the flat. Too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson, but not Sherlock’s energetic ascent. Too loud to be Mycroft, thank god. Greg?

There is a quiet knock on the front door and it opens. The corners of John’s mouth turn up. Sherlock forgot to lock it when he left. In most cases, a flatmate would be thoroughly pissed off by such as oversight, but John is no ordinary flatmate. They have always secured the flat when both out, but mostly left it open if one of them was home. That is, until John was kidnapped from their very sitting room. Sherlock religiously locked the door after John returned home. Mary would not have been able to get in that first day if Mrs. Hudson hadn’t just been up and neglected to lock it. Sherlock even used to suggest to John that he not open the door for anyone while the detective was gone for those first few weeks. The fact that he is comfortable enough again for it to slip his mind is strangely comforting to John.

“Can I come in?” Greg’s voice calls from down the hall, pulling John from his thoughts. 

“Of course, Greg. Come on in,” John answers loudly, putting the paper down and standing. “You needn’t ask.”

In a moment, the DI is walking into the room. John gestures toward the kitchen, taking a few steps in the same direction.

“Shall I make us some tea?”

“No thanks,” Greg meets his eyes grimly. He looks tired and downtrodden. A frown comes over John’s features. This whole matter with Mary has taken quite a bit of the joy from Greg’s face. He seems older somehow and always sad, even when he and John go out for drinks. His smiles never reach his eyes anymore. 

“Something stronger?” John slows his step and turns to face his friend fully.

“Just sit down, John.”

“Okay,” he walks to the sofa and sits, brows raised expectantly, and in confusion. Greg stands before him with one hand on his forehead. He looks truly exhausted. He brushes his hand through his hair and then straightens up to appear more authoritative. John studies him carefully and begins to wonder if this is an interrogation.

“Mary is now in custody.”

“Shit,” John’s jaw drops. That is the last thing he expected to hear. “Greg, I’m sorry.”

“She won’t say a word and demands to see you,” Greg interrupts him. John’s jaw drops again, his eyes wide.

“What? Me?” he starts shaking his head almost immediately. “No.”

“John…”

“No. She nearly killed Sherlock,” his voice grows louder and more intense. “Why the HELL would I talk to her?!”

“For me,” Greg says quietly. John goes silent and looks at him with very angry eyes. “Please, John. I can’t…” he stops and visibly steels himself. “I don’t even know how to feel about it. I convinced Mycroft to let me help look and when we finally find her, she won’t even talk to me.”

“You’re a cop. She knows she can’t tell you anything, even she wants to.”

“Exactly,” Greg comes close and stares down at John with pleading eyes. “Please, John.”

John maintains eye contact for a few seconds, reading Greg’s eyes the way Sherlock taught him, and looks away. He presses his lips into a thin line. Greg still loves her, god help him. When John meets Greg’s eyes again, it’s with frustration rather than anger.

“Yeah, okay.”

***

The two men are silent during the drive in Greg’s car. John can’t stop his mind from replaying conversations he and Mary had while eating picnic lunches on the island. He was so suspicious of her then and trusted her when she turned up in London. What a fool he was. She was bilking him for information from day one. John knew Sherlock had his reservations about her. He hadn’t fallen for Mary’s charm, but he went along with it for John’s sake and look what happened. She shot him. Molly told him Sherlock had died on the table, but come back somehow after the medical team stopped trying to resuscitate. That’s how close John had been to losing him for good at the hands of this woman who claimed to be his friend. Now, here he is, on his way to see her traitorous face again for a man she manipulated into loving her. Just like she’d manipulated him. A shudder works its way down John’s spine. If he hadn’t already been mad for Sherlock, would Mary have tried to play on John’s affections instead? 

Greg pulls the car up to the checkpoint of a maximum security facility. The guard looks at their IDs and credentials, and lets them in. They enter the building and make their way to an interrogation room. They stand outside the door for a moment in silence until John lays his hand on the knob and starts to turn. He stops and turns to face Greg when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“She asked that there be no audio or video and that no one watch through the one-way,” the DI tells him in a low voice. John lets an incredulous sigh pass through his lips as he looks Greg in the eye. “I agreed to two of the three, but I’ll be watching through the one-way. If she does anything, says anything, let me know. I don’t care how you do it. I’ll not have her hurting you again.”

John nods. Greg gives him a pat on the back and breathes a quiet thanks. John meets his eyes and nods again with a small smile on his lips. He turns back to the door, lets out a long breath, and opens it only as far as he needs to slip in. Entering the room, John pulls the door shut behind and immediately locks eyes with Mary Morstan. She leaps to her feet and hurries toward John, her arms outstretched.

“John!”

He raises his arms, palms out to keep distance between them. Every muscle tense.

“Don’t…” he begins loudly, but pauses to calm himself and lower his tone a bit, “touch me.”

Mary stops abruptly. She looks at him like she’s been slapped, her arms dropping to her sides. She takes in everything he’s presenting - tension and fury being the most prominent emotions. She schools her expression and takes a step back.

“I’m so glad to see you’re doing well.”

“I can talk, if that’s what you mean,” his voice is sharp. “I’m not dead.”

“John,” she replies with pity in her voice. It’s the kind of tone used with children who simply don’t understand something, “it was that or the head. I think you’ll agree it was the better option.”

“No,” he straightens to his full height, fuming “No, it wasn’t. You didn’t have to take the shot.”

“I did, John. And it had to look convincing.”

“But it didn’t,” he is fully pissed off now. “It didn’t do any good. Magnussen knows.”

“I know that, John,” she says sternly. She walks back around the table and looks him straight in the eye. “I need your help.”

“No.”

“I need you to talk to Mycroft Holmes.”

“No,” he repeats, leaning forward to rest his hands on the table.

“John, I’m a sitting duck here.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re my best friend, John,” she frowns and her eyes are wide in disbelief.

“No,” he lifts his hands and steps away from the table. “No, we were friends, but you were lying. You lied to me from the moment I met you.”

“True, but that isn’t what’s bothering you.”

“YOU SHOT SHERLOCK!!”

Mary jumps a little at the dramatic change, as does Greg. He takes a few steps toward the door of the adjoining room where he watches though the one-way, deciding to pull John from the interrogation room, but stops suddenly and watches his friend a moment longer. John struggles to regain his composure.

“You  **shot** the man I love. He died on the table,” he stares at her with cold eyes. Her jaw drops in shock.

“God, John, that wasn’t supposed to… I aimed to the left of his…”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!” he is furious and screaming again, but stops abruptly. Clenching his hands at his sides, John tries to keep himself from exploding again. He continues in a dangerous voice. “Just tell me why I should give a FUCK about you.”

She says nothing. John steps back, turns, and strides to the door.

“John, wait! Please!”

He’s raising his hand to tap on the door and leave.

“I’m pregnant.”

Greg can’t hear what they’re saying, but can see the energy drain from John’s body where he has stopped just a couple steps from the door. His shoulders sag, hand falling from where it was ready to rap on the door. John’s eyes fall, the color draining from his face, and he exhales deeply. Greg watches curiously.

“Greg?”

“Yes.”

Greg watches from behind the one-way. John closes his eyes as if in pain.

“How long?”

“Sixteen weeks. Give or take.”

“Shit,” he breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of it to turn out like this.”

“Shut it,” he barks, turning to face her. “So help me, if you are lying again.”

“I’m not. I promise you, I’m not.”

He looks deeply into her eyes with his own intense stare, probing into her soul the way Sherlock taught him. This time, he isn’t going to mess up and let his feelings get in the way of his deduction. He finally touches his forehead as though he has a headache and sighs. He definitely looks pained now and Greg finds himself actually flinching on the other side of the glass.

“I’ll talk to Mycroft, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“I know, I know,” she gushes in relief. “Thank you.”

John just shrugs and turns away, reaching for the door again. He jumps back quickly when it opens on its own and he finds himself eye to eye with a worried Greg Lestrade.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I just need some air,” he pushes past Greg, who glances at Mary and then follows John.

“John, wait.”

John stops to look back at his friend. Greg jogs toward him.

“What did she say?”

“She wants me to talk to Mycroft. Get him to help her disappear.”

“You’re not going to.”

John looks at his friend. His eyes are full of regret, but are resolute. He glances down just to break away from Greg’s intense stare. Carding a hand through his hair and very obviously pissed off, John raises his gaze once more and sighs. 

“I have to, Greg. I’ll explain later.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” John turns and walks down the hall to make his way out of the facility. Greg watches him go in utter confusion. What the hell could Mary have possibly said to get John to help her?

***

Mycroft is standing in his office by a bookcase, reading through a file when he feels another’s presence in the room. He looks toward the door to see John Watson standing just inside the doorway and wearing a grim expression. He straightens to stand with better than his usual posture and sighs rather tiredly.

“How do you always make it past my secretary?”

“I told her you were expecting me,” John shrugs. “And it helps that she fancies me.”

“Indeed,” he walks to his desk while gesturing. “Please come in. What can I do for you?”

“I need your help.”

As he sits, Mycroft sighs again and looks up at John. Eyeing him suspiciously, he takes in every detail of his body language and expression. To his credit, John doesn’t reveal much. He must be learning from Sherlock. Mycroft grimaces.

“You will forgive me if I do not look forward to your visits, John. The few times you have asked for my help have always resulted in hurting my brother. Judging from your expression, this time will be no different.”

“Mary Morstan has been caught.”

“As I am well aware.”

“Magnussen will find her in any prison or holding cell.”

“A fact of which I am also aware.”

“She needs to disappear.”

“Does she?” the older man narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“She’s not safe,” John replies. Mycroft tilts his head as if the conversation is a complete waste of his time and shoots him a look. “She asked me for help.”

Mycroft fixes John with cold eyes. He stands once again and walks around his desk to face the doctor, lining up their shoulders.

“Did you have a relationship with her on that island?”

Anger flares in John’s eyes and his shoulders tense up.

“No, I did not,” the “t” is a very sharp and crisp sound. “She asked me for help and I…”

“She shot you, John,” he leans in close and continues in a low voice. “ **And** Sherlock. You were both nearly killed. That alone…”

“She’s pregnant,” John mutters, knowing he cannot hide the truth. Mycroft closes his eyes and John continues even though he knows he doesn’t have to. “With Greg’s child.”

“Damn it.”

“She’s not lying, but god, I wish she was,” John releases a deep breath. “So you see the problem.”

Mycroft opens his eyes and looks at John sternly. His expression betraying nothing. 

“Give me an hour. She will be extracted and taken to safety.”

“Thank you.”

“I assume you are going to tell Sherlock of this.”

“Of course. I plan to tell Greg as well.”

“Is that wise?”

“I’m not keeping secrets for her,” he says, stone-faced. “And I’m not lying for her either.”

Mycroft says nothing, but has a look of approval in his eyes. He turns back to his desk, already dialing a number.

“Give Sherlock my best.”

***

When John walks through the door of 221B that evening, all is quiet and he is tired. He hangs his coat next to Sherlock’s, feeling exhausted and knowing he must tell his flatmate what he’s been up to. With a long sigh and overtaken by the desire to put the kettle on, he starts for the kitchen.

“Sherlock?” he calls as he goes. The tall man suddenly appears in the kitchen doorway and walks toward John.

“Where have you been all day?”

“Where have I been? Where have you been all day?”

“Waiting for you.”

John tries to veer past him, but Sherlock claps his hands around John’s biceps and walks right through him, pushing him up against the nearest wall. He presses his body against John’s, cups his face, and closes his mouth over John’s startled open lips. Sherlock’s tongue dives in, sliding around John’s, sucking and biting lightly.

John can feel all of his thoughts fading into surprise and desire as his brain starts going completely offline. My god, how much he wants this man, but he tries to maintain his focus. He wants to be upfront and honest with Sherlock. He wants to tell him that he is helping Mary and why. He plants his hands on Sherlock’s waist and pushes him back. Sherlock allows just enough space in between them to lower his own arms and grasp John’s wrists. He roughly forces John’s arms up and pins his hands against the wall above his head.

“Sherlock…”

His mouth is over John’s again, incredible and fast. His lips are so soft and sweet that John could get lost in them forever. Lost. Completely lost in those gorgeous plush lips, tugging at his own and moving luxuriously. John tries to clear his head again and get back to the matter at hand. He MUST tell Sherlock what he has done. Their lips part at just that moment, but Sherlock speaks before John can.

“Have you eaten?”

“What?” he asks, truly confused.

“Because I’m hungry,” the detective breaths and tips his head down to devour John’s neck.

“Oh, god.”

Sherlock licks and mouths and finally sucks at John’s pulse point. He frees John’s hands so he can pull both his jumper and tee up over his head. Sherlock quickly wraps his long fingers around John’s head and nips at his mouth. John gasps for breath and winds his tongue around his lover’s. Sherlock breaks away a moment later and nips at John’s earlobe, followed by the sensitive skin behind and under his ear.

Sherlock’s hands work their way down from John’s face to his naked chest and then slide down to hold his ass tightly, pressing their bodies even closer together. Sherlock kisses John again while pulling up on his ass. John gets the message immediately. Draping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, he hops up a little and wraps his legs around that slim waist.

Sherlock backs away from the wall and turns toward the bedroom. He carries the small man through the door where they both topple over onto the bed, John pulling Sherlock with him because he won’t loosen his hold around the man’s waist. However, Sherlock wiggles free as he moves down John’s neck to his chest. John’s knees are bent, one on each side of his detective, his legs spread open. He couldn’t look sexier right now if he tried. 

Continuing down John’s body, Sherlock pauses at each of John’s nipples, eliciting a sharp inhale from John. Then he drifts slowly over his angular, and very ticklish, abs. John is writhing and giggling beneath him all the while. When he reaches John’s belly, Sherlock stops to look up at him from under the veil of his long lashes. With a devilish smile on his face, Sherlock dips his tongue into John’s navel in much the same way he would more intimate places.

“Fucking hell.”

John nearly loses control at that moment, but is saved by Sherlock rising off of his body. He is about to shoot a look of disappointment at him, but Sherlock reaches for his flies before he has the chance. He strips John’s jeans and pants off in one go. John barely has time to toe off his shoes first. Sherlock jerks his socks off and then tears off his own clothing with such speed as John has never seen. As soon as he’s finished undressing, he dives onto the bed and wraps his pornographic lips around John’s rock-hard cock. A loud moan emerges from deep in John’s throat as Sherlock sucks enthusiastically, quickly followed by an irritated grumble when Sherlock lets it fall from his mouth a few minutes later.

“Oh, no, John,” he licks his own lips, “I don’t want you to come that way.” 

He climbs up and straddles him, slicking John’s cock with lubed fingers. As he sinks down on him, John realizes that the clever bastard already prepared himself either while he was giving him head or while waiting for John to arrive home. He looks into Sherlock’s dark eyes with his own blown pupils, and wears a sly smile when he speaks.

“You were multi-tasking.”

“It’s what I do,” Sherlock whispers as he sinks further onto John until he’s balls deep. Sherlock bends down to press his lips against John’s as he starts rocking his hips. John grasps at his lover and pulls him to his body tightly as he begins to move with him. Within seconds, they find their rhythm. “God, I love you,” he rumbles breathlessly and picks up the pace. John responds in kind. “I love you, John.”

John only grunts in response and pulls Sherlock tighter and more forcefully to his hips with every thrust. Before too long, his movements become quick and erratic.

“Oh my god. Sherlock, I’m so close,” John whispers.

“As am I.”

John suddenly cries out and comes inside Sherlock, which is enough to send Sherlock arching onto John’s chest and neck. They clutch at one another and ride out the orgasm. As they both start to come down, still lightly thrusting and holding one another tightly, Sherlock notices for the first time that a drop or two of his own come is on John’s left cheek. He giggles quietly before he can stop himself.

“What?” John smiles, breathing hard. Sherlock leans over him and wipes it away with his fingers. John bursts into a fit of giggles when Sherlock shows him. Then, before Sherlock can wipe his fingers clean on anything, John takes his long digits in his own hand and wraps his lips around them. Sherlock watches him like he can’t believe John exists, or maybe he can’t believe they are together in this moment. John isn’t exactly sure which.

“You are gorgeous, John.”

“Oh?” he finishes licking Sherlock’s fingers. “Just because I did that then?”

“Not just for that,” he answers with a laugh he can’t stifle. He slides off John’s body onto his side, pulling John with him until they are both on their sides and facing one another. Draping his arm around John’s waist, Sherlock kisses him deeply and with such emotion that John feels dizzy when he pulls away. “You are amazing, John. Simply amazing. I love you. I want you every day, all the time. I never want to be without you again.”

Sherlock smiles tenderly when he stops speaking and brushes the fringe off John’s forehead. John smiles back and tugs at Sherlock’s hip.

“You don’t have to worry about that. You aren’t getting rid of me.”

Sherlock grins and snuggles up to John’s warm body. He lets out a contented sigh. Before too long, they acquiesce to their need to clean up and visit the loo in turn, but are soon back in bed with arms wrapped around one another. Each man looks into the other’s sleepy eyes.

“I love you…” Sherlock mumbles as his eyes slip closed. John grins at the smile on his lips.

“I love you too,” John kisses his nose.

“…husband,” the detective finally finishes his thought, even as he drifts off. 

John’s eyes snap open wide, but he says nothing. He smiles, kisses Sherlock again, and lifts himself out of bed. He pulls on a pair of boxers shorts and saunters into the kitchen to put the kettle on. John stands with his hands on the counter, his eyes fixed on the kettle, but seeing nothing in particular. He is plotting out what Sherlock might say when he tells him about Mary. He shouldn’t have let his desires get the better of him tonight. Should have stopped Sherlock and told him immediately. John switches off the stove and pours the hot water into his mug. As he waits for the tea to steep, John resolves to tell his detective first thing in the morning and accept the consequences.

*** 

John wakes the next morning to find six feet of consulting detective spooning with him. He sighs and presses himself against Sherlock’s chest so he can feel his warm skin touching every inch of his back. Smiling to himself, John lightly grinds his bum into Sherlock’s morning erection. A puff of breath grazes the back of his neck when Sherlock chuckles and then lightly kisses his nape.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Not long. A half hour?” Sherlock rests his hand on John’s belly, his fingers splayed. John slips his own fingers over the back of the detective’s hand and in between his long fingers, twining them together.

“You’ve just been lying here with me? What have you been doing? Lurking around in your mind palace?”

“Mm, no. Watching you sleep.”

“Watching me…” John cranes his neck to look at his detective, “and that’s entertaining, is it?”

“Very.”

Sherlock kisses John’s neck again and then drifts to his ear, his tongue licking John’s skin all the way. John can’t help but shiver when those lips meet the shell of his ear. He would love nothing more than to turn within those long arms and make love to the man sharing his bed, but there is a conversation that must be had. One he should have begun the previous evening. He pulls away from Sherlock a little and tilts his head forward so his ear is harder to reach. His lover takes notice immediately, inhales deeply, and sighs it out.

“Something is bothering you. Please tell me what it is.”

“I’ve…” he licks his lips, hesitating. This is going to hurt. God, all the times he told Mycroft he would never hurt his brother. He lifts Sherlock’s hand off his belly and clasps it between his own hands, bringing it to his chest. He can feel the muscles in Sherlock’s arm clench briefly, anticipating trouble. “I asked Mycroft to make Mary disappear.”

Now every muscle in Sherlock’s body is tense.

“Why would you do this?”

“Magnussen could get to her easily. She’d…”

“Have been killed. Yes, I know,” Sherlock completes his sentence, sounding impatient. “Why would you do this?”

Sherlock draws away. John can’t bear it, but expected it. He sighs.

“She asked for my help. She asked me to speak with Mycroft.”

Silence. Sherlock has frozen behind him. John’s heart breaks when Sherlock tugs his hand away. There is no place they are touching now and John’s body feels cold without his detective.

“You had a relationship with her on the island,” Sherlock’s voice is soft and somehow he keeps  its tone neutral. John’s eyes go wide. His heart lurches in his chest.

“No!” he says emphatically. “No, no.”

He turns quickly to face Sherlock. His mouth already open to speak, but says nothing. Where he expected to find fury is the face of a man trying hard to hold it together. Sherlock bites at his lower lip and then lets out a puff of air with a short, false laugh. His eyes focus down somewhere at John’s chest, a pained look on his face. John’s chest tightens. He’s been given this man’s heart to care for and he’s killing him.

“I suppose it makes sense. You were so isolated. With only Moriarty. And he…” he blinks and raises his eyes to look at John. The tears he tries to blink back slip from his eyes instead, traitorously making his already impossible to hide feelings clear. “It makes sense that you would reach out to someone.”

“No, Sherlock,” John puts his palms on his lover’s cheeks and wipes the tears away with his thumbs. “Nothing happened between me and Mary on the island or anywhere else. I love you. I want to spend my life with you.”

Sherlock’s eyes look down again, more tears dripping out.

“It’s okay, John…”

“No,” John says in an authoritative tone. “Sherlock, it is  **not** okay. It would  **never** be okay.” He sighs. “Jesus, I’m such an asshole. I’ve done nothing but hurt you since we started this. I’ve not treated your heart with the care it deserves. Not for a single minute.”

At that, Sherlock meets his eyes. John’s heart crumbles at what he sees. Sherlock looks utterly wrecked. The hurt in his red eyes, his face broken, and yet trying desperately to hold himself together. A knife thrusts into John’s heart, the pain rolling through his body. He needs tell him everything. Keep no secrets, hold nothing back. Sherlock deserves the truth.

“We shared a bed once,” his voice is quiet. Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Moriarty bounced my head on the floor, the headboard, whatever he could. Mary was... hiding in the closet. She was laying behind me with a towel to stop the bleeding and we fell asleep.”

“John…” The doctor puts the fingers of his left hand gently on Sherlock’s lips and looks deeply into his silver eyes.

“We showered together once too,” John’s shoulders sag in shame. “Mary found me unconscious in my room. Moriarty had beaten me so badly and raped me. I was trying to clean up after she woke me. I thought I could stand on my own, but I...I couldn’t. She was only there for stability, Sherlock, I promise you,” he pauses and steels himself to admit something he has refused to admit to even himself. “She wanted more. I know she wanted more, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be with anyone who isn’t Sherlock Holmes. You are a piece of my heart I never knew was missing. You bring out the very best in me.” He shakes his head slowly, looking into those soft silver eyes. “There will never be anyone else. Never has been.”

Sherlock’s cheeks are streaked with tears. His breaths coming heavily and rapidly. His hands have crept onto John’s hips. He blinks back even more tears.

“You have never used that word before,” the detective tells him quietly. John furrows his brow.

“What? What word?”

“In reference to Moriarty’s brutality.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Not once,” another tear falls down his cheek.

John’s eyes drift from Sherlock’s face as he considers this. It’s true. He had never said it, never allowed himself to think it. Somehow it had made him feel stupid and small. The idea of it. A man being raped - it had made him feel weak and ridiculous. He was a soldier. He could defend himself. But now…it seemed he had rethought it.

It hadn’t been just physical violence. Moriarty manipulated him emotionally. He threatened the one person John loved most and sex was the bargaining chip, the only thing that would spare Sherlock the torture. Moriarty took it, took all he could from John. With no remorse. And he’d enjoyed every sickening minute. For the first time John was asking himself why that should make him feel stupid or weak? It was not his fault. For all this time, even as he was healing physically and emotionally, he somehow still felt it was. Until now.

John met Sherlock’s eyes again. His own eyes damp, but filled with resolve.

“You’re right. I haven’t. It made me feel weak and helpless. I thought… I still thought it was my fault.”

“It wasn’t,” Sherlock shakes his head, love and affection in his eyes. “You are the strongest man I have ever known. And the bravest.”

“I know it wasn’t now, but all this time… I didn’t even realize it myself, but I suppose I’ve had time to change,” he struggles to find the words. “To change my way of thinking and to heal. I never could have managed without all the support of friends and...you. I finally have some peace.”

Sherlock suddenly pulls him into his arms and kisses him soundly. When the kiss comes to an end, he crushes John against his chest in a tight hug. John adds from where he is smashed against the man.

“I’m sorry I helped Mary. Please forgive me.”

“I love you, John. You are, and will always be, the love of my life,” he loosens his grip to look John in the eye. “To suggest otherwise is absurd.”

They press their smiles together in a heartfelt kiss and then snuggle close in contented silence. Sherlock running his fingers through John’s hair and John stroking his hands up and down Sherlock’s back.

A good twenty minutes later, John looks up at Sherlock to see he wears a thoughtful expression.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Why did you agree to help Mary?” he looks at him with sharp eyes full of curiosity. “She’s done the unforgivable.”

John opens his mouth to speak, but stops short when a certain look suddenly appears on Sherlock’s face. John watches in disbelief.

“Really? I haven’t even said a word. How could you possibly know?”

“How?  **How?”** he smiles playfully at his beloved. “It’s written all over your face. Protecting her life means protecting Greg and the life of their child.” John’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times. Sherlock barrels on. “But Greg doesn’t know, does he? Are you going to tell him?”

This time John is interrupted by loud pounding on the front door to the flat, as well as shouting. The voice is clearly recognizable to both men. Leaping out of bed, they each clamour for clothing.

“Sounds as though Greg has discovered Mary is missing,” Sherlock comments, looking for his trousers. John just gives him a strained look and hurries out, pulling his shoes on as he goes. He rushes to the door, unlocks, and opens it. Greg charges in, eyes blazing. He grabs two handfuls of jumper and pushes John back into the nearest wall, pinning him there.

“Greg, listen to me,” he tries to explain quickly, but the DI will have none of it.

“Where is she, John?! You asked Holmes to break her out! No one else would! Why the fuck did you do it!?” 

John persists in talking under Greg’s shouts in a quiet, but forceful tone in an attempt to calm the unstoppable flow of questions and accusations to no avail. Finally the furious man screams at full volume.

“YOU SLEPT WITH HER!” The two men stand as still as statues in the silent room until Greg accuses him again in a lower voice, no less full of poison. “You slept with her on that island and now you’re bailing her out.”

“NO I DIDN’T!” John shouts, suddenly enraged. 

He twists out of Greg’s grasp as Sherlock enters the room and quickly grabs hold of the DI to prevent his pursuit of John. Sherlock’s eyes are grave. He heard every word, as would Mrs. Hudson, had she not been out on her morning grocery trek. John is burning with anger and furious energy. He backs away in the direction of the flat’s front door to put some distance between himself and the Detective Inspector.

“Jesus! She asked me for help. She was dead in that facility! We all knew it,” he continuously takes a few steps to and fro, too furious to stay still. His hands gesturing to emphasize his words. Greg and Sherlock seem frozen in place as they watch him move about like a caged animal. “And why am I suddenly the asshole who would sleep with Mary without a second thought?” He plants his feet and stares them down. “That’s all three of you now in less than 24 hours. Do you all think so little of me that… Fuck it. Just…forget it.”

He strides to the front door, grabs his coat, and opens the door. Sherlock springs into action, releasing Greg and stepping forward, intent on preventing John from leaving.

“John!”

The doctor stops in the doorway, points, and looks at him directly.

“Don’t follow me, Sherlock. Just… just piss off,” he mumbles. “M’going for a walk.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sag as John slams out. He and Greg can hear him stomp down the stairs and through the outside door. Sherlock drops his head and runs a hand through his hair.

“Shit, Sherlock.”

He raises his chin to look at Greg, who stares back with wide eyes, finally looking like himself and not a man possessed.

“I shouldn’t have said. Don’t know why I did. I, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yes, blind rage will do that.”

“Damn it,” Greg looks at the door sadly and then back at Sherlock. “Shouldn’t you go after him?”

“No. If I have learned anything about John Watson it’s that it’s better to leave him alone until he’s ready to talk.”

“Everything he said, it’s true?”

Sherlock holds his eyes for a moment and gives him a nod.

“I can only assume she did not want to ask you so as not to endanger your career.”

“But why John?” Greg asks, squinting his face into what looks like a wince. “She’d nearly killed him, and why the hell would Mycroft agree?“

Without really thinking, Sherlock steps closer and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“They both did it to protect Mary’s life and the life of your child.”

Greg looks at him blankly at first. Slowly, his face morphs into one of pure shock.

“My child? Mary‘s pregnant?”

Before Sherlock can reply, the flat’s front door opens and Mrs. Hudson bustles in with a yelp that startles both men. When she recovers from her surprise, she wears an expression of anger and frustration, and stamps her foot.

“Sherlock, look what you made me do!” she bends to pick up the loaf of bread she dropped and continues scolding. “I thought you were out. I was sure I just saw you on the street with John. He didn’t look at all well. Is he all right?”

“What?” Sherlock cocks a brow. “What exactly did you see, Mrs. Hudson?”

“A man helping John into a car. I thought he’d fallen ill and you were going to the surgery together,” furrowing her brow in concern. “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

“Why did he appear unwell?” he questions, stepping closer, his mind already racing. “What was he doing?”

“He was dizzy and confused. He couldn’t walk on his own.”

“Magnussen,” Greg mutters. He looks to Sherlock. “They drugged him.”

Sherlock strides to the door, talking as he moves and grabbing his coat from its hook. He looks to Mrs. Hudson as he pulls it on.

“Lock yourself in your flat. Don’t let anyone in until one of us rings you. If you hear anyone in this flat, for god sake, don’t come in here. Call the police.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” the older woman looks up at him sadly, “if only I’d realized.”

His coat on, Sherlock meets his landlady’s worried and frightened eyes. He places a hand on her shoulder affectionately.

“No worries, Hudders. He’ll be all right.”

“I have his house,” Greg is at his side, pressing his mobile into the detective’s hand. “We’ll take my car.”

Sherlock nods and the two men start down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson slowly follows and heads for her own flat as they hurry out onto Baker Street.

“It’s outside of London. Takes at least an hour and they have a head start,” Sherlock informs him, looking at the GPS more closely once they are both in the car. Greg turns his head to glance at him as he starts the engine.

“I’ll speed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! I can't wait to hear what you all think of this one!
> 
> I wanted to say that I've been told AO3's notification system might be acting a bit wonky. Some readers aren't being informed of new chapters and, since I have no idea how to fix that, I think all I can do is encourage you all to keep an eye out for new chapters. I'll definitely be posting them. If it goes over a week with no news of updates, go ahead and check because I probably did post.
> 
> In another bit of housekeeping, there are definitely going to be 11 chapters in this Part instead of 10. Just letting you know.
> 
> I love you all and love to keep on entertaining you and hearing from you. You're the best and your support means so much to me. Things are getting a little tricky with me right now. My emotions are all over the place. Posting is truly one of my most treasured joys. Thank you all.  
> Love always, Jane


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, friends, I was wrong. This Part is 10 chapters after all. Sorry about that. 
> 
> Also, no spoilers.
> 
> Also, John kidnapped AGAIN?!?!  
> He knows people with enemies who use others to get to them. What can I say? He's going to be kidnapped more than a few times throughout his life. Let's just hope he always comes out unscathed.  
> Happy reading.

John opens his eyes to hazy surroundings. He remembers someone putting an arm around his shoulders from behind and jabbing something into his neck. He knows he’d been drugged, but he doesn’t feel groggy enough for it to have been very strong. He is sitting in a deck chair next to an indoor swimming pool. A fairly large man stands on either side of the chair. What the hell is this about? They didn’t have a case on. Or had Sherlock been working on one when he left early that morning and just didn’t tell John about it?

John is pulled from his thoughts when the two ogres suddenly grab his arms tightly and pull him to his feet roughly. They drag him forward a few feet and stop, still holding him by his arms with no intention of letting go. An older, distinguished-looking man with an air of icy calm about him approaches and stops in front of the trio. John begins to put the pieces together before the man even has a chance to speak.

“Welcome, Dr. Watson. I am Charles Magnussen,” he greets with a friendly expression. His smile is unsettling. 

“I thought as much,” John answers gruffly with a scowl on his face. It hasn’t been two minutes and he already does not like this man. John wants to make it clear he has no intention of helping him in any way.

“You also know that Mary Morstan was under my employ and that she is now missing from a high security detention center. I believe she is a friend of yours, in spite of recent events.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Let me explain what I do, Dr. Watson,” he says smoothly, stepping a little closer and into John’s personal space. “I specialize in secrets. I know so many and I use what I know to get the things I want.”

“Blackmail.”

“Blackmail, yes,” he chuckles quietly. Magnussen seems genuinely amused. “You are so upstanding, Dr. Watson. I admire that. I suppose I should expect nothing less from ex-military. So honorable…and yet you have such an unusual colleague.” 

John clenches his jaw at the mention of Sherlock. Is he here too? Is Magnussen going to pull him from a locked door and use him against John? Magnussen smiles again as John’s scowl deepens. It’s a wide smile, and sly. One that makes his mouth look eerily larger than it should be. Like it actually extends all the way to his ears. John finds himself retracting his head minutely in an instinctive desire to put more distance between them. Magnussen continues to smile and leans closer yet.

“I have many operatives, Dr. Watson, who watch and listen. I can tell so many people what to do should the need arise,” his smile falters ever so slightly, icy eyes reflecting disappointment. “Unfortunately, some do not do as I ask. Some operatives betray me, creating the need for Miss Morstan and these two gentlemen. Oh, I haven’t introduced you. Where are my manners?” He straightens, backing away from John a bit and gesturing at the shorter of the two men first. Both tower over John and wear very serious expressions. “This is Terrence and Foster.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” John remarks, keeping his eyes on Magnussen.

“Indeed,” Magnussen replies. He studies John for a long moment and steps closer again, his smile fading. “You have information I want. And you are going to tell me.”

John looks as immovable as stone. His own eyes have taken on an icy blue tinge, instead of the warm glow they usually possess. His jaw is set and he glowers at the old man in front of him.

“Where is Mary Morstan?”

“If I knew,” the corners of John’s mouth curl in angry amusement, “do you think I’d tell you?”

“Everyone has a pressure point, Dr. Watson. I knew your sister’s.” John’s body tenses in fury. “And I know yours,” he leans even closer to John. Their faces mere inches apart. “But since Mr. Holmes was with the Detective Inspector when you were collected, we will have to improvise. I’m afraid my need of this information is immediate.”

John almost grins when the man reveals Sherlock is safe. He snaps his head forward, forehead making contact with Magnussen’s nose and knocking the older man backwards. Magnussen staggers, but manages to regain his balance. He touches a hand to his nose gingerly, finding blood. He stares John down with intensely cold eyes as he produces a handkerchief and dabs at his nose.

Magnussen’s men are gripping John’s arms fiercely. One pushing a handgun tightly against John’s head. The other pulling John’s arm back, and his bad shoulder with it. Pain radiates through it, and into his arm and chest. John tries to ignore the pain and glares at Magnussen as he closes the space between until their faces are inches apart once again.

“There are two ways this can go, Dr. Watson. You can answer all of my questions willingly or torture will prompt you.”

***

Sherlock slams the car door closed and looks up at the mansion before him. The drive to Magnussen’s estate felt like it took twice as long as it should have. He kept from losing his mind by staring at the GPS on Greg’s mobile and willing John to be okay. He glances at Greg once he steps out of the car and they both head for the house. After a few strides, Sherlock stops and watches as Greg approaches the front door. He jogs closer and begins needling impatiently.

“What are you doing? You think he’s just going to answer the door and tell us what he’s done with John?”

“No,” Greg replies tersely, “but I can’t legally search or enter without permission. We have no proof Magnussen took John and even our circumstantial is dodgy.“

Sherlock huffs in fury and scampers off across the lawn, determined to look in every window he comes to until he finds John. Greg throws his hands up and watches the mad detective.

“Damn it. Sherlock!” he curses. The detective pauses a moment to look back at him. Greg points his finger at him and commands angrily. “If you find anything, you call me first thing!”

He nods and continues on his way.

Sherlock bobs and weaves along the sprawling house, looking in every window on the way. He turns a corner to find himself finally at the back of the building. A sizable half circle of beams and glass with a domed roof juts out from the otherwise straight exterior. Sherlock continues along, peering into light and dark windows alike. As he grows closer to the glass extension, he can see it holds a large swimming pool with three men at its edge. One is Magnussen and the other two look to be henchmen. One appears to be holding a weapon and the other is squatting to reach into the pool. Sherlock’s blood freezes as the third man straightens up, pulling a spluttering John out of the water. Sherlock speed-dials Greg as he begins to run for the glass room.

“Talk.”

“They’re killing him.”

He drops the mobile in his pocket and runs full-on while scanning the wall for a door. He changes trajectory when he spots one and looks back at the scene by the pool in time to see John’s head being forced into the water again and held there. A burst of adrenaline moves him toward the door even faster, unable to think of anything but John. Suddenly, his foot catches on something and he finds himself tumbling head-long into a flower bed. Lying on his back on top of several small rose bushes, he scrambles to his feet, grabbing at rose and thorn alike. By the time he has hopped back to his feet, his hands are covered with tiny cuts, the rest of his body protected by clothing. Pulling his ankle loose from some thorns caught on his trousers and ripping his pant leg, Sherlock turns to the glass room again and races for the door.

As soon as it is in reach, Sherlock wrenches open the door and rushes inside. What he finds is shocking, even for a man of Sherlock’s vast experience with death. Startled though he may be, he does not hesitate and continues toward the pool. As he approaches, he can see that Magnussen and his two thugs lie where they stood, each in a pool of blood and a bullet in his head. John is nowhere to be seen. Sherlock tears off his great coat as he runs for the pool’s edge. There is only one place John can be.

Sherlock catches sight of him at the bottom as he jumps in the water. John is right at the four foot mark, so Sherlock can easily walk to his body, but swimming is faster. Once he reaches the smaller man, he plants his feet on the pool floor and squats down. He bends far enough to be entirely submerged so as to get a firm grip under John’s arms. Then he straightens his back and legs together, pulling John’s head and shoulders from the water.

Clutching John so his back rests against Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock backs toward the edge of the pool and drags John out of the water and onto his back. He quickly puts his hands on John’s chest and does thirty compressions, then tips his chin back and locks their mouths together. Two breaths. He hastily checks for a pulse and finds one. Sherlock continues to hover over John and give him a breath every five to six seconds.

“John. John, please, (breath) Please don’t. (breath) John? John. (breath) John, no, please. (breath),” Sherlock briefly checks for pulse and finds one again, but it is weaker this time. “John, no, no. (breath) God, John, don’t, no. (breath) No, No, No. (breath)”

John’s body suddenly convulses, his back aching off the floor and his head falling back. Sherlock clasps the back of John’s head just before it hits the hard floor and watches without breathing. John’s body convulses again and water spurts from his mouth. As more streams from his lips, John begins coughing. He pulls himself into a sitting position with Sherlock’s help and coughs hard. Sherlock’s hand is on his back, grazing his jumper lightly. After a few more minutes of coughing and gasping, John settles into a more normal pattern of breathing.

“John, are you all right?” the detective’s voice is shaking.

“Yeah,” he nods, clearing his throat. He can feel a hand coming to rest at the base of his neck. “Yeah, I’m fine, Sher…mph!”

Sherlock’s lips press hard against John’s. The force of Sherlock’s weight knocks John on his back onto his elbows. The detective is urgent, nearly desperate. His hands unable to hold enough of John. His mouth can’t taste enough. He kisses John quite thoroughly, even as the adrenaline wears thin and his racing heartbeat begins to slow to something resembling normal. As soon as their lips part by even the slightest margin, John whispers breathlessly.

“I’m okay, Sherlock. I’m okay.”

“I love you,” Sherlock’s eyes closed, his deep voice barely audible. “I love you, John. Don’t ever leave me.”

“Don’t move,” Greg’s voice demands from behind the detective. Sherlock’s eyes pop open as his head raises slowly. “Let go of him and put your hands in the air.”

Sherlock sits up and away from John, turning his head slightly as his hands rise cautiously. The DI may prefer not to use his gun, but will if he is given a reason. Sherlock is very still. John is about to speak up in his detective’s defense when Greg quirks a brow and asks hesitantly.

“Sherlock?”

Feeling less like a target, he turns enough to see Greg’s wide eyes.

“Jesus. Sorry, mate. I thought you were one of them,” he relaxes his shoulders. Sherlock frowns, putting his hands down. Greg glares back at him. “Whaddya expect? Bodies all over the place, and you without the distinctive coat and your hair all slicked back looking like fucking Khan.”

“Who?” Sherlock asks, crinkling the bridge of his nose and furrowing his brow. John can’t suppress a bark of laughter. Sherlock turns on him with a troubled, but inquisitive look on his face. “What?”

“Forget it,” Greg rolls his eyes, holstering his gun and gesturing. “What in the bloody hell happened here?”

Sherlock rises to stand before the DI. They both survey the scene wearing grim expressions. John can see the wheels in Sherlock’s head turning at full speed, ascertaining where the bullets were fired from and how many gunmen there were. John wants to stand with them, but is fairly certain both men would leap at him, intent on making him stay down until medics arrive.

“They were all shot by experts at the exact moment I conveniently tripped and wouldn’t witness anything,” he glares in Greg’s direction. “You won’t find any evidence.”

Greg closes his eyes and drags his hand across his forehead. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in frustration. Opening his eyes again, he looks from John to Sherlock.

“Right. How did you get in then?”

“The outer door was unlocked,” he spits the words and then turns away in disgust. “Very fortuitous.”

“Oh, Christ,” Greg grits his teeth, getting Sherlock’s drift. He gives John an angry glance and snatches his mobile from his pocket. “Yeah, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I have a triple homicide and need officers and medics at the following address…”  

***

Sherlock, John, and Greg are stuck at Magnussen’s estate for hours. Day turns to dusk and they are still at Magnussen’s bloody house. It is just after dark by the time things are finally wrapping up and, in spite of the urging of the medics, John unequivocally refuses to go to hospital. He and Sherlock argue for a good hour before Greg finishes and offers them a ride to Baker Street.

They are still arguing as they walk up the stairs of 221 and into their flat. Greg spares a glance toward Mrs. Hudson’s door, which is closed. She must not be home or she would have rushed into the entryway and wrapped John in a bone-crushing hug. Just as well since the bickering men do not seem inclined to stop anytime soon. True to his word, Sherlock rang to tell her John was safe shortly after backup and paramedics arrived at the scene.

Greg trudges into the flat, closing the door behind and glancing at the two quarreling men. God, they could go on forever. He lets out a quick chuckle and takes a step, but stops dead in his tracks. His eyes cloud over.

“Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up. I know I would drag you to St. Bart’s at great personal risk, but I am  **not** going. I am a doctor and I am fine.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but another voice drifts to their ears from the direction of the fireplace.

“Well said, John. No one can rival you at putting my little brother in his place.”

Their heads snap. All three sets of eyes are on Mycroft, trying damn hard to drill holes into his head. He does not look any worse for ware in spite of it. Every man remains silent as Mycroft sips from his tea cup primly. He gives them a wry smile and says nothing more. A minute of complete silence follows.

“Well?” John breaks it with an angry growl. Mycroft turns his gaze to the doctor, watching him scowl and squeeze his left hand. Just before Sherlock pipes up, Mycroft elegantly places the cup and saucer on the small table next to his chair, or rather Sherlock’s chair, and eyes John.

“Yes, I believe I do owe you an explanation,” he pauses for a satisfied smile. “It was time that Charles Magnussen was neutralized.”

“I can’t hear this,” Greg sighs. He turns to leave, but stops in the hall with his back to the room when Mycroft continues.

“The immediate threat to Miss Morstan is gone and she is no longer in hiding. She is, however, in a maximum security facility awaiting eminent trial. She will be found guilty and spend the remainder of her life in prison. She has already relinquished all rights to your child, who will be transported to you when delivered.”

When Mycroft is finished speaking, Greg turns half in the doorway. They can see him close his eyes in anguish, taking a deep breath. As he opens them again, he casts a side glance into the room. His ghostly brown eyes meet only John’s.

“I should be happy. Hell, I should be grateful,” his shoulders sagging, “but it all feels so hollow.”

He turns away and walks down the hall, opening the door to the flat and leaving. They can hear his heavy and discouraged footsteps walk down the stairs. John wastes no times in turning his attention to Mycroft again, none of his anger abated. Sherlock, on the other hand, has never taken his eyes off the man before him. His fury burns white hot. The chances Mycroft has taken with John’s life in the past have infuriated Sherlock, but this time it is completely unacceptable and he is livid. He cannot stop himself from thinking about what might have happened. If he hadn’t been fast enough getting John out of the water. If he simply couldn’t revive him.

For his part, Mycroft has still not cast a glance at his brother, his focus was first on Greg and now John. He believes each of them is far closer to this than Sherlock. He could not be more wrong.

“I have been aware of Magnussen for some time, but it was not until very recently that he began demanding more attention from those in high positions. The situation with you and Miss Morstan was the tip of the iceberg, as they say. Therefore, his power was extinguished and him with it.”

“Oh, that’s what tipped the scale?” John quips with barely contained hostility. “I’m so flattered.”

“We were in position to act during his scheduled lap swim,” Mycroft continues, feeling John deserves a more detailed explanation. “I had no idea you had been kidnapped and were in the house. The plan was quickly modified upon knowledge of your presence.”

“Really?! How exactly was it modified? Because it still all went to shit.”

“I estimated the average time they held you under. You should have been out of the water, conscious, and out of harm’s way when the shots were fired.”

“Estimated the time?” John repeats, incensed and furious. “Just how long were you watching?!”

The older man opens his mouth to answer, but Sherlock’s voice cuts off Mycroft’s words viciously.

“Long enough to gather enough data for a decent estimation. Don’t bother shouting, John. The words will have no impact,” glaring coldly at his brother. “Except it didn’t work. John was unconscious and dropped right to the bottom of the pool.”

“We unlocked the door for you in that eventuality, Sherlock,” Mycroft grumbles. “Everything was well in hand.”

“YOU WERE WRONG! And it almost cost John his life!” Sherlock shouts in rage. “It’s not the first time either. Can I attribute your failings to the recent addition of sentiment in your life? I don’t recall such atrocious mistakes before you grew a heart and found love. Is it your precious wife who has dulled your faculties??”

“NOT GOOD!  **SO** NOT GOOD!” John yells at his flatmate. Sherlock finally tears his eyes away from Mycroft, startled by the sheer volume of John’s words. The doctor stares at him agog. “Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, John,” Mycroft says quietly. “I deserve my brother’s fury, as well as yours. I do regret my failures and my actions.” He looks squarely into John’s eyes. “I am sorry. Now, if you will excuse me.” He walks hastily to the doorway, but stops in the hall and turns back in much the same way as Greg. “Sherlock…I’m sorry.”

With that, Mycroft disappears down the hall and the two flatmates are alone for the first time since they woke in the morning. John turns to Sherlock, wearing his lecture face.

“Oh, come on. You CANNOT be on his side,” the detective winges.

“Side? There are no sides, Sherlock. No, I’m not happy with Mycroft. Yes, I’m bloody pissed. But what you said was over the line.”

“You could have been killed!” he approaches him in frustration.

“Yeah, that’s true. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead right now,” he sighs and shakes his head. “We lead a dangerous life and we do our best. All of us.”

Sherlock looks at John with sincere eyes. Searching. Questioning. He can feel his life turning upside down the more he thinks about Mycroft and Molly. Mycroft has been so clumsy of late. He thinks of Greg and Mary. Greg ignored his better judgement for love. He thinks about himself and John, and his eyes snap open wide. Is the same thing happening to him?

“Mycroft doesn’t make mistakes. … Didn’t make mistakes.”

“But he does, Sherlock. He always has. He still regrets getting us involved with Irene Adler and still blames himself for not keeping Moriarty away from you. We all make mistakes, Sherlock.” 

The detective looks into John’s eyes a few more seconds and then drops his gaze to the floor, unable to face him with the thoughts in his mind. As he expects, John still senses his inner turmoil.

“Sherlock,” John reaches for him and raises his chin with two fingers so their eyes meet once again. “What is it?”

Sherlock hesitates. His eyes darting away and back again. He doesn’t want to ask the question on his mind because he fears its answer.

“Now that we’re…” he swallows, “involved, do you think it will happen to me?”

John straightens up to his full height, uneasy about the direction the conversation is going. His hands travel down to grasp Sherlock’s lightly.

“Do I think your judgment may be somehow impaired? No,” he closes his eyes a split-second before continuing without lying or withholding the truth. He can’t. He’s done too much of that already, but his chest physically hurts from the gravity of his words and what he knows they will means to his detective. “But you might make decisions you wouldn’t have considered in the past.”

Sherlock’s face falls and he pulls away from John, pulls his hands out of John’s. With a significant distance between them now, John’s shoulders sag. He tries to keep the disappointment from showing on his face, but isn’t sure how successful he is. At least Sherlock isn’t looking at him anyway. John swallows hard at the lump in his throat and tries to keep his voice steady. 

“Do you think we could ever go back to the way we were?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap back to John with both certainty and fear.

“No.”

“But you don’t want it to change. Or progress?” John ventures. Sherlock’s eyes widen in despair. His expression one of pain, knowing John’s face will soon mirror his own. Sherlock wets his lips and doesn’t look away for even a second.

“No.” 

John’s mouth opens with a sharp inhalation that he tries to keep from sounding like a gasp. But it is one. Of surprise and horror and anguish. He desperately tries to school his expression, failing miserably, if Sherlock’s face is any indication. The detective has crumbled. John blinks, making the decision he has to make, and looks at Sherlock with determination. As quickly as that, he has adopted the stance and demeanor of a captain. He puts a hand on his lover’s shoulder.

“Okay,” he says with a shallow nod. “It’ll be okay. I love you and nothing is going to change that. Hey. You still with me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods, his eyes shining.

“Then we’ll be fine,” John smiles. Sherlock looks at him in disbelief and opens his mouth to speak, but John quickly presses a kiss over his lips. Resting his forehead against Sherlock’s and letting out a shaky breath. “I smell like a pool. I’m gonna go shower, yeah?”

Sherlock nods, not sure he can speak without weeping all over the beautiful man in his arms. John pulls back, gives Sherlock a smile, and heads for the loo.

“John,” he calls after him. John twists to look at him. Sherlock gazes at him for a moment, his mind full of words he wants so desperately to say.  _ Come back to me. I want you. Hold me and never let go. You are my heart, my life, my conductor of light. Marry me.  _ But Sherlock only sighs with pain in his features and breathes, “I love you.” 

John gives him a small smile and walks to the en suite, closing the door behind. Moments later, Sherlock hears the shower turn on. His eyes glide to his hand as he pulls a small ring box from his suit coat pocket. He opens it and looks at the platinum wedding ring inside until tears blur his vision. He closes the box and strides to his own chest of drawers where he buries it under some of his indexed socks. He pushes the drawer shut harshly and closes his eyes. Covering his mouth and nose with his hands, he stifles the noise as he gasps around tears and sobs.

In the shower, John rests both hands on the wall in front of him. Leaning forward with his head under the water and his eyes closed, he unknowingly joins his flatmate, tears rolling down his cheeks. His hopes for their future are crushed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are your hearts broken? I can hear you now. "Jane! Jane! How can you even live with yourself after ending the Part this way??? Oh god, Jawn. AND Sherlock." I know, but Pat and Purrfect do call me Empress of Evil for a reason. Speaking of which, how's that for angst, ladies? Heh heh heh. I really AM evil.
> 
> I've had a suggestion for anyone having notification troubles. Apparently, you can subscribe to me as an author and you'll get notifications about any works I post without fail. If you have simply bookmarked my series or one of its Parts, you may not receive notice of new chapters if the system goes wonky. However, I'm assured that subscribing to me JaneOfCakes will result in notice of all postings. I hope it works for those who are interested and try it. Thank you for sharing your vast knowledge of AO3 with me, Pat.
> 
> Thank you all for your love and support and feel free to let your emotions fly. I must confess, I'm especially interested in seeing if my good friends, Sherly and AGPatton will leave comments with tons of swears. I love those messages. Tee hee.
> 
> As you may have guessed, it's not over yet and persistence is still key. I love you all and hope you stick with me. We'll get through this together.  
> Much, much love, Jane


End file.
